


Set Lips to Skin

by lovestuck



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Daddy Kink, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pseudo-Incest, Safe Sane and Consensual, and morality, complicated realtionships, exploring complicated relationships, main character will be sixteen before anything happens, not as dark as it sounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-11 06:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 88,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17441510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovestuck/pseuds/lovestuck
Summary: He wants to understand where he went wrong, if he held her too much, gave into her too often, if somewhere along the way he did or said something wrong.Because the alternative is admitting that there was no cause, there was no entry wound; that its fate, or serendipity, or divine fucking intervention.That he and Sofie are just unfortunate enough to love each other more than they should.And yet lucky enough to love each other.More than they should.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first iteration of Bittersweet Thing, so there will be some similar elements, and some similar ideas, I think, but for the most part it is a pretty different story.  
> It's stepfather/stepdaughter, so while they aren't actually related like Bittersweet thing, it's also a bit more complicated because he has known her for so long and deals more with the evolution and shifting dynamics of their relationship.  
> No major warnings other than underage, but she's sixteen before anything actually happens.

 

* * *

Chapter I

* * *

 

 

 

 

          The house shifts colours in flickering, rotating streaks of red and blue lights, spills in through the broken front door and chases the bite of November's cold winds across dark floors. The radio’s buzz, a circling noise like vultures; cops converging, enclosing the carcass of the house to pick at its bones.

Through conversations and staticky, bitten off signals, Tom follows his partner through the front door, the older man heading straight into the shadowed home. There’s a stretch of yellow, reaching light from a broken, knocked over lamp that stretches shadows towards the stairs.

It’s there that he sees something, curled small, near hidden in the pitching shadows.

Tom stands there for longer than he wants to admit, a little girl blinking at him and sniffling, looking up at him when he steps closer, eyes all big and wet and green.

He tells himself:  _get someone else, you don’t even like children._

 “Hey,” he says slowly, keeping his voice low and easy like she’s a little wild thing ready to bolt. “What’s your name?”

She shivers, blinks, but doesn’t move as Tom steps closer, crouches down in front of her and reaches out to tuck a stray piece of blonde hair behind her ear.

“Sofie,” she quivers out and looks up at him from where she sits on the stairs, curled tiny against the railing, so small he thinks he must have passed her by on first glance, barely visible at all. He looks over her, up the stairs and into the dark of the upper floor before he looks back to the girl on the stairs.

“Were you hiding up there, Sofie?”

Sofie nods, the blunt bob of her hair swinging from the movement. “Are you po-eesman?”

“I am,” he says, looking over her, a quick check for wounds because there’s blood smeared on her shirt, like someone with bloody hands grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her away. “I’m Tom. Can I see your hands, Sofie?”

Sofie lifts her hand, the other white-knuckled around the rung of the stair. After checking her offered hand he has to pry the other loose from its grip, her hand tiny and cold in his. The girl shivers, blinks, but doesn’t say anything as he checks her arms for injuries and then looks over her again, just to make sure.

“Is Daddy okay?” her voice comes out wobbly, her body nothing more than on continuous tremble; eyes big and wide and wet.

Tom looks at her quietly, debating what to say, but nothing comes; his jaw tightens and he blows out a long, heavy sigh. “Why don’t we go find your mother, hm?”

He picks the girl up, hands tucking beneath her armpits until she wraps her arms around his shoulders, little damp cheek sliding against his as she buries her face into his neck and he tucks his arm beneath her bottom to hold her close.

He moves through the house carefully, other officers moving about in blue suited waves; the low hum of radios buzzing, the distant surf of low conversations between policemen, it fills pockets of silence along the hallways, spills out into the night.

The house slowly comes back to life as he walks, lit bright now, each room being lit, no stone left unturned as the flash of camera’s chase shadows further into corners, cataloguing everything with a unbiased eye.

His partner shakes his head as Tom rounds the corner into the kitchen, a sign of what’s ahead. Tom presses a wide hand against the back of the girl's head, fingers carding into her hair lightly, cradling it to keep her sightless of the scene in front of them, even though he doubts she’ll look up; her hands are clenched into his uniform, little body shaking, face still tucked away with no sign of emerging to see what’s in front of them.

Her mother, sitting on a blood-smeared kitchen floor, staring at nothing but her hands as the paramedics try to ease her back into reality.

He knows the name, most of the police officers here do— Elise Anne Parker, twenty-four, married at nineteen. Child born at twenty. Husband— _Victim_ : Joshua Eric Parker, dead at twenty-five. Police officer.

Home invasion.

Which makes the entire shit situation even worse; cops converge when one of their own falls. Especially in the case of Josh Parker who is— _was_ the youngest son of a well-respected, well-known detective.

Tom stands at the edge of the kitchen, a girl tucked in his arms, one arm beneath skinny legs to hold her against him, her body trembling, burrowed into him like she’s trying to sink deeper still. He looks down at the mother, at the obvious trauma caught freeze frame on her face, propped against the kitchen cabinets, red-eyed and absent and staring at her hands.

He looks back down at the shoulder of the child in his arms, the smear of red over her t-shirt—

An easy image to paint:  _Sofie, run!_  Urgent, shaking hands turning little shoulders, wet blood sticking to cotton and sinking in.  _Go hide!_

He wonders how long the girl hid for, if she hid at all or if she had been sitting, clutching onto those stairs as the paramedics arrived, as the first officers arrived, and then him.

He doesn’t even  _like_  children, but the sight of that little, trembling, wide-eyed and blotchy cheeked girl had halted his steps into the house. His partner, a man too close to retirement, yet still too far from it for Tom’s liking, had brushed past, a gruff word about the scene ahead that amounted to nothing useful.

But Tom couldn’t just leave her there.

And now, looking at the mother, looking at the red stain on her hands, the smears on the floor, the ones on cotton… he can’t help but think simply:  _fuck. How much did she see?_

The paramedics coax Elise Parker to her feet; she blinks at nothing, her eyes the same green as the child he holds for no real reason at all other than some mix of guilt and pity. He watches them pull her up, she moves absently, entirely numbed to the world around her, a near zombie-like pace as the paramedics move her towards the front door.

He turns carefully, trying to keep the entire thing from the girl’s sight. He may not like children, but there’s no reason for her to see any of this; why another officer didn’t pick the girl up before he got there, he doesn’t understand.

But then, by the number officers milling about, more than normal for something rather mundane as a home invasion, homicide or not, it may have been that she hadn’t been there at all, that at some point in the sea of officers, the girl had crept back down the stairs and sat, clutching on to the railing and waiting; too scared to move further, too scared to speak until… until Tom. The first one to really see her, tucked tiny and waiting to be noticed.

He pulls the girl in a little closer, moving back down the hallway, stepping around evidence and other cops; his mind running.

Even he’d met the victim, met  _Josh_ , more than once; a cocky, well-known officer a few years older than him. Josh had moved around all the seasoned officers like he had known them for decades…and probably had: the effect of being a cop’s kid, after all.

It was aggravating, a lazy nepotism never really acknowledged; not while Tom had been working as many hours as the department would allow, pulling extra shifts and taking extra work, making sure he had paperwork beyond reproach… and most importantly, learning when to cede to other officers and knowing when to stand up and not bow to the hierarchy of older cops found in any precinct.

Like now, like the partner meant to guide him, who is really more a deadweight than any help at all.

His partner returns, the useless waste of space he is, and grunts out something about  _fucking gangs_ and  _the kid’s father_ … Tom half listens while he considers his options:

“You find the kid?” Calloway asks, frowning, eyeing the kid like he’s trying to decide if she’s worth the hassle, paperwork or effort.

Is she?

Being directly involved in a case like this would do well for a career start if he could get on it, wouldn’t it? If he could meet the right people... no sense that this shit situation being entirely useless.

“On the stairs,” Tom says absently, looking for the lead officer. “I’ll deal with her.”

His partner frowns, eyes the kid, then Tom and then shrugs. “Alright.”

He makes plans to try to slip his way into the investigation; find the lead detectives, maybe speak to the Captain. He rolls plans in his head as he follows the slow shuffle of the mother being led by the paramedics out of the house and into the chill of early November night air.

The girl shivers, pressing tighter into him, trembling more now from the cold than from the adrenaline and fear that must have swamped her body when he first found her. He rubs his hand over her back, a slow, wide-palmed circle to try to press some warmth back into her, to ease her and warm her all at once.

The paramedics help the mother into the back of the ambulance, lay her back on the stretcher, her eyes glassy and absent, staring at nothing as they manoeuvre her around and strap her onto the stretcher.

The girl in his arms sniffles, and in the white noise of conversations, radios and the flickering of blue and red lights he hears her breath hitch, a little noise in his ear that pulls something just beneath his ribs; a little twinge, a little ache as he feels the first leak of hot tears soak into his neck. Another little hitching cry that makes her back jerk beneath his palm, her hands twisting tighter into his uniform.

He thinks about passing her off to the paramedic who looks back at him, waiting.

He tells himself again he doesn’t even  _like_  children—

But he still climbs into the ambulance.

Calloway looks at him from the pavement, an eyebrow lifted. “Really?”

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he shrugs, half-hearted with the shoulder the girl isn’t tucked into as the doors shut, blocking Calloway’s response.

The paramedic motions to the kid, asks if she needs any care, if she’s alright, he shakes his head and then in an awkward, unpracticed move, takes the offered, thin blanket and wraps it around the girl, shuffling her in his arms to try to cover the areas her pyjamas don’t cover.

Her feet are freezing, digging into his ribs; he sighs, blowing out an irritated breath, no idea why he cares at all. He thinks about the paperwork she’ll cause, the other work still on his desk and waiting… but the little sniffle in his ear is distracting, that little caught hitch of her breathing, even more so.

Tom takes one of her feet in his hand, reaching awkwardly to his side to cup the small foot in his palm. The girl sniffles, wet face, smearing over his uniform as she trembles in his arms; he waits until her little toes feel warm and then switches arms and reaches to his other side and cups the other little foot in his hand to warm that one up as well.

The paramedic smiles softly at him from across the ambulance. He resists the urge to roll his eyes or glare at her; it’s simple kindness bordering into pity, he just doesn’t think the kid should be cold and terrified and all alone, is all.

Especially not with the way her mother looks at the moment, blinking at nothing, looking catatonic and just… _gone._

The ambulance starts to move, the siren silent, the earlier urgency faded away into the night, red and blue lights flicker through the windows; the girl curls against his chest, arms tightening around his neck and then relaxing as she sniffles and sighs heavily, only one small, uneven tremble in the long exhale.

It's a strange, sad noise he doesn’t know what to do with.

He sighs, watches the arcing, blue and red lights through the windows of the ambulance, the sight growing smaller as they head out towards the hospital, a four-year-old in his lap.

 

 

 

 

                The girl clings to him like a limpet; falls asleep as the night ticks closer towards the dawn.

Tom slouches in the stiff hospital chair at the mother's bedside, letting Sofie sleep on his chest as he flicks absently through her mother’s chart. His partner comes by only once, a copy of the evening’s report, no more than a few pages on the victim and on Elise Parker, _nee Rowen._

The girl sleeps soundly, cheek mushed against his chest.

“Shifts done,” his partner grunts. “Let the nurse watch the kid.”

“Its fine,” Tom never looks up from the pages. “The grandparents should be here in an hour.”

The other officer shrugs. “Suit yourself, kid. I’m off,” he looks down at the woman, drugged up and asleep in the white hospital bed. “I’ll see you Monday, don’t be late.”

Tom’s never late, in fact, he’s always there long before his partner shows. He doesn’t bother responding, the man wouldn't care at all; the door clicks shut behind him and Tom sighs, shifting a little in the hard-backed chair.

He’s pretty sure his ass fell asleep an hour ago.

But he rubs the girl’s back when she sniffles in her sleep, burrowing tighter into his chest, and he tries not to move again.

 

 

                Just over an hour later, as Tom’s eyelids start to droop and his neck aches from holding still, the grandparents arrive in a burst of cold, crisp air and sorrow.

In the ensuing chaos Tom slips out, the kid scooped from his arms and into the shaking, desperate arms of a grandmother.

He leaves his name and number with the nurse at the desk and heads out into the pre-dawn, his chest cold and feeling strangely too heavy and too light all at once.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

               He gets a voicemail two days later from the hospital, a woman’s voice coming distantly through the phone.

 _Officer Graydon,_  her voice is soft and polite but steady, confident, like she’s used to being heard.  _I’m Gloria Rowen— Elise Parker's mother. I was wondering if you could come by the hospital relatively soon, my granddaughter has been asking for someone called Tom, and the nurse said you were the officer waiting with her until we arrived that night. I’d like to meet you. If you could find some time to drop by, we’d all appreciate it._

There’s a soft click instead of a goodbye; Tom repeats the message, leaning against his kitchen counter, wondering why the fuck the kid would be asking for him. How she even remembers his name.

Curious, he scratches the day’s worth of stubble on his jaw and stares into the quiet dark of his apartment, thinking about the girl, about her mother, about that night at the hospital.

He sighs, blowing out a long breath and grabs for his laptop from his bag. It flickers to life in a blue glow, and Tom clicks into the browser; his typing loud in the quiet of his small apartment.

_Trauma in children_

_PTSD—_

No, he thinks, she’s fucking _four_ , it can’t be PTSD.

_Childhood trauma effects_

There’s a long list of results, pages worth, things he isn’t sure he’s ready to spend time looking into just yet.

Irritated by not understanding why the girl, of all people, would be asking for him, or even thinking about him… he flips back through all the information he’d gathered on both sets of grandparents and the girl’s mother before closing all of it and snapping his laptop shut with a sigh.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he reminds himself that this is what he wanted: to be involved in this case— that his first fucking intentions were to try to find a way into the investigation, to try to be more involved…

But, a small part of him doesn’t know if attaching himself to a grieving family directly is the smartest fucking idea he’s ever had…but then, both families are more than wealthy, more than well-known. both the Rowen and the Parker families are made up of lawyers, judges and cops… a long line of bluebloods tracing back through multiple branches of politics and government. And more than that, their connections in the city are… extensive.

It’s really no wonder these two families merged eventually, with all the ways they occupy the same circles.

He scratches his jaw, thinks about a shower, a shave, about the house and the kid and comatose woman in the white of the hospital bed…he pushes off his counter and reaches for the fridge instead.

It cracks open and light spills out all yellow and cold, the electric humming fills the quiet as Tom thinks everything over, thinks about how he’s here, in this tiny apartment, about where he wants to be, the future, the weight of his past and he’s sure, for a moment, that trying to involve himself with people that far above his station is a terrible, terrible fucking idea.

He pulls out a beer, twists the cap and listens to the metallic ting of it bounce in the sink, his mind whirring as he takes a swig.

Tom knows he’s no more than a product of the very system these two families keep in motion; no more than one more statistic shown to them over the years: one of  _those_  kids, growing up shuffled around foster homes, in and out of government facilities, on an off the streets…

Another kid, another lost cause, another child caught in the crossfire of bad parenting, crime, drugs, the very city streets he grew up on.

At least, he was.

Until he pulled himself together long enough to get a GED and enter the police academy. It wasn’t until that moment, the first time he’d been called  _officer,_ that he actually felt like he left that statistic behind.

And it’s odd for him now, to look back…this wasn’t even in his original plans, he thought he’d get his foot in and work his way into law and push upwards until he had enough influence and connections to head into politics and make something of himself that way. To maybe actually do _something_ that _mattered_.

But, in the reality of it, in the reality of pulling on the uniform, pinning on the badge, putting one foot in front of the other on the streets he grew up on… there was something about coming back to the streets he left and being able to close his fist on those shadowed, grimy bits that stuck in corners and collected like trash along city streets, that made him…

Feel like he mattered, even just a little.

He scrubs a hand over his face, running it back and through his hair in frustration; he knows this is a gift from the universe, opportunities like this present themselves next to never…but attaching himself to a grieving family, to a  _child…_ he isn't sure if it’s worth the headache.

He pushes to his feet, downing the last of his beer; it’s late, he thinks, he’ll sleep on it and make his decision in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

                The next morning he’s up and running before dawn, feet pounding over the pavement; running the facts through his head. The woman’s voice in his mind. The girl’s shoulders, her cold feet… that little sniffling hitch that hooked his ribs—

By nine, he’s pulling into visitor parking at the hospital.

 _Bad idea, Graydon,_ he thinks. 

_Bad idea._

 

 

 

 

            The girl sits in Gloria Rowen’s lap when Tom knocks, and she stands, smiles politely, if not strained, cautious, eyeing him as if weighing him.

It’s not, unfortunately, a look Tom isn’t used to.

Gloria Rowen is far, far above his station.

“Mrs Rowen,” he starts, but the girl, her face tucked into the woman’s neck, peeking out at him, one eye at first, like she isn’t sure she knows him and then her face turns, her cheeks a little red like maybe she was crying at some point. She blinks at him and—

Puts her arms out, twisting out of her grandmother’s hold and reaches for him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Sofie slumps into him, her cheek mushed on his shoulder, his arm a little numb as he half pays attention to the low argument going on around him.

It’s nothing new, after two weeks of hearing the same growing frustrations, he finds himself siding with the Parkers.

He glances down at Sofie and knows this really isn’t the best environment for her to be spending so much time in. But the Rowens took primary custody, with Elise still numb to the world and with the Parkers living outside the city, it seemed like the best option. But, the Rowens, or at least Gloria, want to wait by her daughter’s side as much as possible.

But it’s a _hospital,_ a hospital and not any place for a child.

Tom sits in the chair beside Elise Parker’s bed and holds the girl in his lap; usually, the families stop arguing for long enough for him to ask questions, or for him to answer any they have, for Sofie to relax against the rumble of his words and fall asleep or to distract him and the others in turn, with some childish curiosity or story. But they’ve spent too much time together now, too many days and nights and early morning visits to care about him being there anymore; every ounce of his hard-earned, scrape-knuckled, fought for image is undone by the little girl who can’t quite seem to get enough of him.

And he isn’t too sure what to do about that.

Or if he even minds at all.

 

 

 

 

            “She’s quite taken with you,” Anna says fondly as she scoops Sofie up from his lap. “Such a sweet thing.”

She rubs Sofie’s cheek with a finger, a smile on her face, Tom glances at the clock and can’t quite believe how much time has passed since he arrived.

Though, he can’t help but agree; he’s never been fond of children, at all really, but Sofie is such a small thing, bright-eyed and cheerful whenever she speaks to him, a ready smile and a giggle that makes it impossible not to smile back. It’s nearly embarrassing, might _actually_ be a little embarrassing, but he thinks any child that cute would be bound to make the most hardened, heartless person smile back.

He thinks about the first few days and can’t quite believe he’s still here _:_

_“Do you have any more information?” Charles Parker, never a man of many words, ex-cop, hard-edged and stoic, the only one in the room that Tom has any real connection to at all, grunts out. “Lise is still—”_

_“Grieving,” Gloria Rowen hisses. “She’s grieving, you—”_

_“No,” Tom interrupts, wanting to avoid another aggravating argument and looking over to the woman on the bed. “I was hoping to talk to Mrs Parker,” he pushes to his feet, straightens his uniform from the wrinkles pressed into it by the girl that had been napping in his arms. “But I suppose I’ll just try again tomorrow.”_

_“You’re putting an awful lot of personal effort into this case,” David says from the other side of the room. Tom knows him the least, the man always away on business, his wife, Gloria, on the other hand, rarely leaves at all. “Why?”_

_He thinks about lying, but the truth, when palatable, is often the easiest way to operate._

_“It’s my first real case, Mr Rowen, I’m aiming for detective one day soon… Pardon my bluntness, but due to who Joshua was, and whose been suspected of involvement…this isn’t a case to overlooked.“_

_David nods, his attention turning back to his phone, his wife shaking her head and sighing._

_“Admiral goals, son,” Charles grunts. “My son deserves justice, I trust we’ll help get him that.”_

_Tom nods, spares a brief glance to Sofie who’s sleeping soundly in her grandmother’s arms and heads off out of the room._

 

 

 

 

 

                Elise Parker stays near comatose for a month, and Sofie gets shuffled between her grandparents; the Parkers are clingy, as the last remaining link to their son they want Sofie to stay with them, while the Rowen’s are adamant that Sofie stays close to their daughter. In between all of this Tom comes and goes whenever he has time. The visits grow gradually from brief visits to longer chunks of time when the families bicker too loudly, too aggressively, forgetting that the girl they argue about is still in the room and Tom takes her out, out into the hospital cafeteria or outside to wander the snowy park across from the hospital.

It’s strange for him to even rationalise to himself why he cares, but it builds up inside him, every time he comes to visit, every time he leaves, that he  _cares_  about what happens to the kid he found on the stairs. Cares enough to make sure she’s okay and not stuck listening to another argument, she’s not stuck staring at her mother’s prone face, not stuck and being pulled between families…

It’s  _strange_.

But whenever he gets there, she’s quick to raise her arms, a silent demand to be held, to be picked up, to be taken away…it’s a…a strange sight to see, an even stranger one to give into, but he can’t deny that he isn’t a little bit amused and… fucking _happy_ by the girl’s happiness to see him.

It’s  _strange_ , because he’s never been one to indulge in laziness, but sitting in that stiff-backed chair with Sofie in his lap is quickly becoming some weird break in time, like he isn’t who he was or could be or _is._ Like it doesn’t matter what kind of shit day, what kind of horrors, or fucking terrible faces of humanity he’s had to face during his shift…the moment he enters and sees Sofie’s arms rise, or reach out, or tilt away from whoever was holding her towards him instead… everything else falls away like it doesn’t matter at all.

 _Strange_  probably doesn’t fucking cover it.

And in between all this, Tom still pursues the case, not that he had a choice in the end, the Captain tasks him (and it’s not hard to guess who asked for him by name) to the detectives assigned the case and Tom finds himself more entwined in it all than he ever really thought he’d actually get to be.

 It all seems to be working out rather well; he loses his dead weight partner, becomes friendly with two of the most affluent families on the East Coast and finds a little bit of…solace and amity in a toddler, odd as that is for him to think or even justify. But Sofie is this bright little thing that lights up when she sees him and he can’t quite stop the rush of warmth he feels whenever he sees it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                A week over the one-month anniversary of Joshua Parker’s death, Elise Parker emerges from the hospital and enters the quest for justice with the force of a whirlwind.

He finds himself quietly impressed.

She leaves the hospital with a fire burning for information, for knowledge, for justice… it’s appealing, to see her come alive after so long being empty. But, he thinks that’s probably the end of all of it, he’ll resume working solely with the detectives, perhaps keep in touch with the grandparents in a distant way, and…and Sofie will have her mother and everything can reset back to normalcy.

 

 

But it doesn’t.

 

 

Two days after he relays everything he knows to the recently re-woken Elise Parker, he receives a message lighting up his cellphone’s screen as  _one missed call_.

_Hullo, uhm, Officer Graydon, its Elise Parker, I’d like to talk some more about my husband’s case, about your investigation. If you could call me back to arrange a time, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee in exchange? Any time’s fine…thank you._

He thinks,  _don’t do it._

_Time to get back to your own life, time to come back to reality._

He thinks,  _you aren’t this guy._

 

But—

 

 

 

                Tom takes the subway from the station to the Starbucks on Fifth; breathes in stale air and tells himself one cup of coffee, that’s it, that’s all he’s staying for. He steps out of subway, out of uniform after his shift, bundled up against the December chill and walks the block between station exit and the coffee shop, telling himself it’s one last thing he needs to do for the case, that’s it.

But Elise is already there when he enters, and for a moment he nearly doesn’t recognise her. She stands when she sees him; gone is the absent, blank-eyed waif haunting that stark white hospital room, she’s been replaced by the mid-twenty-year-old woman she is. Young, bright-eyed, a darker green than Sofie’s, he thinks distantly as he takes her well-manicured hand; her hair a dirty brown tipped in blonde, fading out from a past dye. She’s pretty, well-dressed in tight jeans and a cashmere sweater, something quietly elegant, quietly wealthy, quietly Upper East Side.

It’s more than a little jarring.

_Elise Anne Parker, twenty-four, married at nineteen. Child born at twenty. Husband—Victim: Joshua Eric Parker, dead at twenty-five. Police officer._

“Thomas, right?” she greets, as his hand slips out of hers. He nods, mutters  _just Tom,_  and unbuttons his heavy coat to hang it over the back of the chair before he takes the seat opposite to her at the small table.

“My mother said you drank black,” she says as she sinks into her own seat, nudging forward a tall, to-go cup. “It’s weird, how well my parents know you, they keep mentioning you…they all do really.”

Tom looks at her, the coffee shop bustling around them and isn’t quite sure what to say.

“How are you, Mrs Parker?” he wraps a hand around the warm cup, heat pricking at the fingers still chilled from the cold, letting the warmth soak into his skin, the smell of the dark coffee waking him up after a long day.

“Just Lise,” she says quickly, her palm lifting a little as she shakes her head. “Just call me Lise.”

He nods, not knowing what to say to that.

“How are you then, Lise?” the name feels awkward on his tongue, he’s spent so long thinking of her in formal terms, as an abstract figure in a bed that it’s hard to rationalise the informality of a first name.

_Elise Anne Parker, twenty-four, married at nineteen. Child born at twenty. Husband—Victim—_

 “I’m…well, I suppose,” she shrugs, drawing her red lip into her mouth. He thinks absently that she is really quite pretty, but pushes the thought from his mind. “I was wondering if we could talk some more about…about Josh. About the case.”

“Mrs— Lise, there hasn’t been any new developments yet, I told you in the hospital that I would keep you appraised,” he takes a sip of the coffee, bitter and dark over the tongue. “I’m not sure what more I can offer you.”

“I’m in my final year of NYU,” she says this as if it means something. “I know how the law works, my family, Josh’s family. We grew up around these things. I want to help. I can  _help_.”

He sighs. “There’s nothing _to help,_ ” he insists, aims for something kind but unarguable, trying to be apologetic in a way he doesn’t really feel. There really isn’t anything she can _do._ “The case is kind of straightforward—”

“It’s not,” her mouth tightens, eyes flaring. “It’s not. They knew who my husband was, who his father was. We were  _targeted_.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that there’s nothing a  _civilian_ , no matter  _who_  they are, or  _who_ theirfamily is, can do,” he says firmly.

“You can’t keep me shut out, he was my husband—” Lise’s mouth tightens, her eyes bright, determined, focused on Tom and he thinks,  _yeah, Gloria Rowen’s daughter for sure._

“You’re grieving, Mrs Parker, it's understandable you want to be proactive, but—”

“You don’t  _understand_  anything about me,” she spits, eyes narrowed and voice harsh.

He moves to stand, thinking that he was right, he should have just stayed out of all of this to begin with, but her hand snaps out, wrapping tightly around his wrist.

“I just want to be involved,” she whispers, a rush of hopelessness, her anger gone, green eyes wide and shining. “Please, even if you just... showed me the files, or something, any information, _anything—_ whenever you could…”

He hesitates, because there’s something in her eyes and voice that remind him of every time Sofie has asked, all wet-eyed, where Daddy is and he had to flounder and scrape together an answer as honest as possible while trying not just say:  _he’s dead, Sofie. Got murdered by some thugs. Welcome to life, kid. Shit happens and there’s nothing we can do about it._

“Just coffee, a few times a week, anything _,_ please,” she begs, her hand tight, nails pricking into his skin with desperation. “ _Please_.”

He thinks _no_. Thinks _fuck no._ Thinks he should get up and leave, get up and tell her that this isn’t his life that he’s a cop, not a detective, that he’s still just a rookie and he’s got his own life to make it through—

But, against his better judgement, he sinks back down into the chair and shoves out a breath, “Coffee, once a week, I don’t know if I’ll even have anything for you.”

Her hand eases off his wrist, “Twice a week,” she bargains. “Please.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, takes a long swallow of dark, bitter coffee.

“Fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

            One month into their strange meetings and stilted friendship, he presents Lise with a copy of the file on permission of the captain, who, as a friend of the family, is willing to let the entire thing slide.

_“Just keep her happy,” he grunts when Tom presents his dilemma to him. “Her father is not someone to cross and we both know their family is already well-versed in this world.”_

_Fucking spoiled rich people_ , Tom thinks, bites his tongue, but he copies everything, staples it together and brings it along to every meeting.

           

 

 

 

            It’s a cold, dreary day in February when Lise arrives later than him to the café they’ve switched to, a quieter one, tucked away between two larger coffee chains, overlooked with its darker brick building and slightly older look.

He glances up at the chime when the door opens, his coat off, just settling into the chair when she bustles in, Sofie on her hip, both of them flushed and sniffling against the cold.

Sofie reaches out for him on sight.

“Tom!”

That familiar pang in his chest spreads to his ribs and he stifles a smile. _It’s just been a while_ , he reasons as he moves to stand and gives into the smile that comes out at the sight or hers, her hand knotting into his shirt as he lifts her into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Lise winces, pulling off Sofie’s hat as Tom (half) grudgingly accepts an armful of squirming four-year-old who presses cold face into his neck as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. “She’s been asking to see you for forever, I should have texted you first.”

“Hi,” Sofie grins, leaning back in his arms. “D’miss me?”

He huffs a laugh, “Of course, did you miss me?” he lets Lise reach up and unzip Sofie’s damp coat, it’s an awkward shuffle from one arm to another, and then she’s bundling all of it into an unused chair and adding her own to the pile before dropping into her seat with a sigh.

“You don’t come,” Sofie says as she leans back into him. “Gramma says you’re busy, but you use’ come all the time.”

“You’ve got your mommy now,” he replies as he sinks into his chair, letting her press her face into his neck again. “You don’t need me.”

“But I like when you come t'see me,” she mumbles, her fingers fiddling with a button on his shirt.

“She hasn’t stopped asking when you’d come visit,” Lise drops her chin into her hand, elbow on the table and watching him and the girl in his arms. “It’s a bit annoying actually.”

Tom has no idea what to say to any of it, except  _I don’t even like kids._

But Sofie smiles and giggles, twists around in his arms and looks over the coffee shop. “Can I have hot choc’late?”

He huffs a laugh, sets the girl into the free chair and isn’t entirely surprised when he pushes to his feet and feels a little hand tuck into his.

“I’ll help!” she smiles up at him, cheeks still wind-burnt, her pink snow boots bright and leaving a puddle on the floor beneath them. Tom looks over at Lise who looks… lost, sad, _gone_ for a blink—

Before she looks away and then back to them, forces a wet-eyed smile and grins at him.

“Sorry,” Lise laughs wetly, her eyes bright. “Being helpful runs in the family.”

 

 

 

 

 

            Sofie floats between them, attached to his hip or Lise’s. Squeezed between them, on them, moving around them, a small sun, floating and circling, pulling them both into her orbit.

It’s  _strange,_  he thinks, weeks later, as everything changes again and strange becomes normal, becomes habit, becomes routine becomes—

 

The meetings shift from coffee to lunch, to dinner, to meals at Lise’s new apartment, or even takeout at his smaller one. It’s a slow progression of three lives coming together like gravity around that one small sun.

 

It somehow all becomes—

His life.

 

And over the next year, nothing changes.

 

 

 

 

 

                A year and a half after that first meeting there’s too much wine and Lise straddles his lap on the sofa in his apartment, they fuck like teenagers, quick, dirty, a buildup of frustrations, of emotions reigned in for eighteen months with no real outlet.

They don't kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                When Sofie turns six she starts calling Tom  _dad_. Elise spends a few months trying to correct her, but Sofie will hear none of it. At school she says,  _I have two dads, but one went to heaven._

 _It’s fucking strange,_ he thinks, and says, _I’ll try to explain it to her again—_ but Sofie smiles and Lise shakes her head and tilts her head onto his shoulder as some Disney movie plays on the tv in front of them.

 _Don’t be stupid,_  she says, _she’s six, you’ve been around almost as long as J—_

 

It’s fucking strange, he thinks, but it’s somehow…his life.

 

 

 

 

 

               Six months after that, Lise will look at him, eyes cautious in a way they almost never are. Lise operates on determination and self-confidence; she never doubts herself.

But here, Sofie sleeps on his shoulder, her skin sticky with sunscreen, his own salty and too hot after a day spent at the beach and Lise will squint up at him, her cheeks a little sunburnt, the sun setting behind him as they head back to the car and says::

_You could stay. If you wanted._

 

He doesn’t need to ask what she means.

 

 

 

                   So, he does.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

Chapter II

* * *

 

 

 

 

                 “I don’t want to go there, I don’t care,” Sofie sulks, her arms crossing, petulant in a way only a preteen can pull off. “I like Briar Hill, why do I have to go to some stupid school so far away?”

“Because I went there, so did your grandmothers, it’s traditional,” Lise sighs. “It’s already been decided.”

“It’s stupid! _Dad_ ,” Sofie turns in her chair, her eyes desperate. “You agree, don’t you?”

Lise shoots him a look from across the table, full of warning before she sets her fork down and says, “Don’t even try it, Sofie.”

“It’s only a couple years, Sof,” he sighs, watching her jaw tighten, pout turning into a scowl. “Your grandmothers think it’s important, you know that.”

“It’s a boarding school! I’ll barely ever even get to come home, or see my friends…” she cries, voice rising, anger pitching it higher. “Why don’t you just send me to Switzerland like the Murphy’s did to their kids, then! Might as well since neither of you want me!”

She pushes back from the table in a rough shove, her chair screeching across the hardwood. Lise rolls her eyes at the dramatics, but all she does is pick up her wine glass and take a sip as Sofie stomps away; footsteps echoing through the townhouse, her eyes flick to Tom across the table.

“Don’t start,” Lise says when he meets her eyes, looking for something to say, something to do in the face of Sofie’s anger.

A door slams upstairs; Tom sighs, taking a long swallow of his own wine before pushing back from the table.

“She’ll have fun,” Lise insists as he loads his plate in the dishwasher. “Trafalgar is a great school. She’ll get there and love it, I know she will.”

“Yeah, I know,” he shrugs; and he does, in a way. He researched the school the first time Lise dropped the pamphlets and admission booklets on his desk and told him about the school she attended when she was Sofie’s age, one that nearly all the children in her family attended when they were the same age.  

Mostly, he thinks it’s all a bit ridiculous. If Sofie’s happy where she is then removing her from Briar Hill and sending her to some boarding school in the middle of nowhere, hours away, for something as useless as  _tradition_  seems pretty fucking stupid to him, if he were being honest.

But like most things to do with the extended family, whether in-law or Lise’s parents, Tom bites his tongue because he is obviously and truly overruled every single time.

“I’ll go see if I can talk to her,” he says, glancing back at Lise, who shrugs, like _if you want to._

As he heads towards the stairs he thinks about just how many arguments he’s lost to the overruling voice of grandparents and  _expectations._  

In this family, or the Rowen side of it, at least, there were still certain expectations to uphold. Sofie is given leeway for her age, for her energy…but it seems even that little bit of freedom is falling into _propriety_.

He’d always wanted Sofie to learn some form of formal fighting, something defensive, something she could use to protect herself…New York, even the Upper East Side, isn’t always safe and Sofie is… is small, a target easily seen.

Regardless of his thoughts, police officer or no, Tom was overruled.

Never mind safety, proper girls don’t _fight, Tom, really. What do you want her to be, a boxer? A cage fighter?_

It still annoys him, he thinks, even now, knowing that for as much as he loves Lise, she doesn’t seem to mind falling into the traditions of her family. It’s hard not to notice the heavy hand of outdated opinions on what a girl  _should_  be doing, it reeks of the mannerisms of Gloria Rowen; ever refined, cultured and… genteel.

It’s a wonder Lise came out half as vivacious as she did, with the oppressing weight of all that refined society pressed down on her.

But it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes, _sometimes_ they lose sight of reality. They live in a bubble world of wealth; their lifestyle holds very little of the real world in it.

And now he knows Lise thinks Sofie's time is better served academically, which is why he’s well aware that half the arguments that happen in their house are either _about_ Sofie or _involving_ Sofie.

He and Sofie haven’t lost completely, she still has her sports and he still has her weekends. But he is worried that it’s only a matter of time before cleats are discarded for classes, or baseballs for books or lessons or _propriety._

Though, he’ll be damned if he can’t take Sofie to the gym anymore; he’ll make sure she learns self-defence in the same rough and tumble kind of way that he grew up learning.

 _Cage fighter, my ass,_ he thinks.

He sighs, rapping his knuckles against Sofie’s door before he pushes in.

Sofie’s face down on the bed, dramatic in a way only a twelve-year-old can be; he hears the quiet sniffle muffled into the duvet and resists the urge to roll his eyes.

He sits down by her side, folding one knee up on the bed and bracing a hand on the other side of her body to lean over her.

“Did that make you feel better?” he asks quietly. “Throwing a fit?”

“Go away,” she mumbles into her pillow, and at that, he does roll his eyes.

“You should yell a little next time, maybe it’ll help your case,” he skims his fingers over her side, tickling her beneath her ribs. Sofie jolts, rolling away, huffing out a breath and flopping onto her back to glare at him with red cheeks and a pink nose. Her hair a tangles over her face and she swipes it off haphazardly, eyes wet and narrowed.

The sight of her tear-stained cheeks pulls at his ribs; he still hates seeing her cry.

“You didn’t even try to stop her,” Sofie mutters, crossing her arms. “It’s like you want me to go.”

“Of course I don’t want you to go, Sof” he sighs and shifts further up onto the bed, bracing an arm on the other side of her legs to lean over her. “Neither does your mom—”

“Yes, she does,” she snaps, her jaw tightening and lips narrowing in anger.

“No, she _doesn’t_ ,” Tom says firmly, no room for argument, cop voice, reading rights. “She just wants you to go to the school she went to. To get the best education you can.”

“Briar Hall is a good school. All my friends are there, all my teams—”

“They have sports at Trafalgar,” he offers, a lame attempt, he thinks it’s mostly about horses.

“Yeah, _horseback_  riding, and  _polo_ ,” she grumbles. “I don’t want to ride a _horse_. I like soccer and baseball.”

“I thought every little girl wanted to ride a horse,” he offers a smile to her but all she does is roll her eyes.

“When they’re like, _six_ ,” she whines like its  _obvious, dad, really._

“You’re short enough, you could pass for six,” he pokes her side, Sofie brings her knee up against his ribs in retaliation; he grunts fakes an injury and drops heavily across her legs.

“ _Dad,_ ” she laughs shoving at his shoulder until he sits up, pressing a hand to his side in mock pain.

“Maybe I need to stop training you, you’re getting too violent,” he complains and expects a laugh, maybe another kneeing, but all Sofie does is fall silent and stare up at the ceiling, her chin wobbling.

“No worry about that then,” her lip quivers. “I’ll be gone like, ninety percent of the year.”

 _Right,_  he thinks,  _boarding school._

“Sofie,” he turns her name soft, an attempt at consolation in the tone.

“I don’t want to go to Trafalgar,” she says wetly, her eyes filling as she stares upwards.

He  _really_  hates when she cries.

“ _Sof_ ,” he says gently, her tears causing a twinge in his chest as she sucks in a breath as they start to slip down her cheeks. “C’mon now.  You’re making it into something worse than it is.”

“I’m  _not,_ ” she exhales, voice pitching. She sits up suddenly to bury her face in his shoulder and he wraps his free arm around her, hugging her with one arm as she presses closer, face turning into his neck like she used to do all the time as a toddler.

“What about our weekends, or our lessons, or movie nights, or…or… _I don’t want to go,_ ” she sobs, back trembling from her uneven breaths beneath his arm.

The sound of it catches in his throat. “I’ll come visit.”

“It’s n-not the same,” she hitches.

“ _Sof_ …” he sits straighter, wrapping his other arm around her, rubbing her back; a pain in his throat he swallows away. “I promise, I’ll come see you every weekend.”

She sobs harder and he sighs, holding her tighter. “There’s this thing called a cellphone, too. Not sure if you’ve heard of it, or Skype. You aren’t going to the North Pole, Sofie,” he tries to lean back, to get her face to leave his neck but Sofie just shakes her head, wet face sliding over his neck. Tom sighs heavily, lets her cry out her anger and sadness and waits for the sobs to turn into uneven breaths and then into sniffles.

She turns her head out of his neck, but her arms stay tight over his shoulders, her hot, wet cheek pressed against his collar as she blows out an unsteady breath.

She turns in his arms, dropping against his side and folding up against him. “It’s stupid,” she exhales heavily, more wet, thick quiver than voice.

“I know,” he rubs her back; because he does know. He thinks it’s stupid to send her away, stupid to uproot her when Briar Hill is a great school and not twenty minutes from where they live and even less than that from the precinct.

“She just wants me to be like her,” she sniffles. “No sports, no  _fun_.”

“Mom’s fun,” he offers lamely. “It’s just different than how you have fun.”

“Her fun is  _Sodoku,_ ” it falls off her tongue like it’s the worst thing in the world. “Or…like, Scrabble or something.”

“Scrabble can be fun,” he shrugs,  _if you’re drunk enough. Making up words and hoping for the best._

Sofie looks up at him, sitting back a little to do so, shooting him a glare full of a monumental amount of disbelieving  _yeah, right._

He huffs a laugh, runs a palm over the side of her face to brush her hair away from where it sticks wetly to her cheeks.

“Nice face,” he teases.

“Nice shirt,” she shoots back and he doesn’t need to look down to know it’s wet and wrinkled from her tears, but he plucks at it anyway.

“D’get snot all over me?”

Sofie laughs, wipes her face and her nose over his shoulder, “Now I did.”

He laughs, pushes her down to the bed and tickles her mercilessly while she tries to wiggle away, laughter bursting out, a high scream for him to stop when she catches enough breath to force out a plea.

“Stop! Stop!” she howls, body condensing to try to stop his fingers. Tom laughs, pulls back and drops down on the bed beside her, Sofie shifting until she sits against his side, leaning against him and looking down at him, dropping her chin on her folded knees as her laughter fades.

“You promise you’ll come visit every weekend?” The pout returns as she fiddles with the hem of her sock, not looking at him.

“Whenever you want me to,” he replies honestly. And it’s true, he realises. He will make that three plus hour drive to see her if she wants him to…and then he wonders when he became this whipped.

(It’s a lie, he knows he’s been whipped since he found her on the stairs.)

“Every weekend then,” she says softly, and folds herself down beside him, curled up, boney knees digging into his side as she drags his arm over her.

“Every weekend then,” he promises, hugs her tighter, relaxing into the bed as she relaxes against his side.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                “Saturday, right?” she says, voice muffled into his chest as she presses against him.

They're standing in the middle of Sofie’s assigned room at Trafalgar, her body pressed into his front, her face buried in his ribs. The bareness of the room is suddenly sobering to him; that he’ll be leaving and Sofie won’t. That he’ll be leaving her here and…just driving away.

He pulls in a breath, telling himself that he knew, _knows_ that this was where it was going to end up; pulling a hand through Sofie’s hair and realises, for all his words of comfort to her, for all the ways he’s said, _its fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll love it, don’t be upset—_

That he, in all honesty, would really rather just…take her home.

 “I’ll be here at noon,” he sets his hand on her head, dragging it through her hair again, pulling the short, uneven blonde of it away from her neck and through his fingers.

“Ten,” she demands into his shirt.

“Eleven,” he parries, lips quirking.

She steps back, shoots out her hand and he takes it, giving it a formal shake. “Eleven,” she accepts with a lofty, final air.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Graydon,” he says archly.

“Indubitably,” she replies with a sniff.

“Oh, Scrabble word,” he chuckles.

“Way too long for Scrabble,” Sofie laughs. “I can’t even spell it anyway.”

“I N D,” Lise says from the doorway, paperwork in her hand.  “U B I,” she continues, moving forward to wrap Sofie in a hug. “T A B L Y”

“That’s why you kick your asses every game,” Tom laughs. Lise shoots him a look, her hand smacking back at his chest.

“Butts,” she clarifies. “Kick your butts.”

Tom rolls his eyes, Sofie laughs, but it goes muffled as Lise drags her into her body, hugging her tight, her voice a little unsteady as she ducks down to press kisses to Sofie’s cheeks.

“You’ll love it here, I promise,” she vows thickly. “I loved it here when I was your age.”

Tom can’t help but think that Lise at twelve was a vastly different creature than Sofie at twelve. Sofie grew up in and out of a police station, in and out of chaos and loss—

 Grew up with _his_ influence instead of surrounded by _the well to do_.

She’s still the smallest thing he’s ever seen, scrawny little bird-boned girl who’s more rough and tumble than most boys.

Lise was, _is,_ a bookworm; he’s seen pictures, heard the stories… she rode horses, played the flute, spent all of her time with equally well brought up girls. Lise was the picture-perfect daughter to a picture-perfect mother.

And Sofie—

Sofie knows how to knee a man where it hurts most, how to jab her fingers between ribs, can out manoeuvre any boy on her soccer team and—

And he honestly does not think she needs this school, thinks that it might squash out the brighter bits of her personality, smooth her out too much and take away all the little rough bits that he loves so much about her.

It’s stupid, and useless, but he hopes Sofie can hold on to herself while she’s here and not turn into a copy of every other daughter he’s seen at social events and family gatherings.

 _She wants me to be like her,_ Sofie had complained.

He hopes, as he watches Lise stand and pick up her purse from the small desk on Sofie’s side of the room, that Sofie can hold on to who she is and not fade beneath manners and well-bred societies expectations.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks, as he holds Sofie tight when she presses into him again, _really do not want to leave her here._

 

 

 

                The car ride back is silent; Lise looks out over the passing Pennsylvania landscape, her head turned away, watching the blurring green of the trees. Her hair glints a few shades darker than when he first met her, her nails flash when she swipes her cheek, a quick little swipe. He doesn’t need to be a detective to know she’s crying.

 The radio hums low, filling the pocket of silence in the car.

“Alright?” he breaks the quiet open, glancing over at her and then back to the road.

“Yeah,” she nods, “I know you think it’s stupid. That I shouldn’t have made her go,” she looks over at him and Tom shrugs, sees no point in lying about it.

“Its tradition,” she offers, like he’ll understand her reasoning this time more than the last…dozen times she’s offered this same line.

_It’s tradition._

“I get it, Lise,” he sighs, “I’m not debating it. I just think if she really doesn’t want to be there—”

“She’s fucking _twelve_ , she doesn’t know what she wants.”

Tom grits his jaw; biting back irritation. He generally finds Elise’s calm, slightly distant air appealing. It’s what drew him in first, he thinks, her ability to separate herself, to see photos and information and suspects and not lose herself to emotion.

 They’ve never been overly affectionate, not the kind of couple that was built on romance and slow dates and awkward first kisses. Something like colleagues first, then friendship that twisted into lust and mutual gratification. twisted into _just stay the night,_ twisted into _I cleared a drawer for you._

Twisted into, _you could stay, if you want to._

Lise is _unique,_ smart, beautiful…and they _work,_ they work so easily that it’s hard to really understand how it all happened.

But sometimes that detached, emotional distance gets directed at Sofie and it _bothers_ him. Makes him want to remind her that not everyone is the same…that Sofie isn’t _her_ any more than Lise is her own mother.

Lise might be able to step back, send Sofie off and think of the positives…but Sofie is _twelve_ and this is an upheaval for her. This is yanking up her root system and telling her to grow anyway.

But he won’t; their relationship is built on this...easiness, acceptance of each other without question. They come together and separate, it’s more…friendship than it is a love affair, he knows, and he imagines Lise, on some level, knows it too. Uses him to fill an empty spot in her life where she wants someone to be.

Where the person she wants to _can’t_  be.

Tom’s okay with it, he never even thought he’d get married, let alone help raise a fucking kid.

“You spoil her rotten, she’s got you wrapped around her little finger,” Lise sighs. “She’s got to realise that dad—” she pauses… her mouth tightens. “That _dad_ isn’t going to sweep in and save her every time she’s upset.”

He definitely does  _not_  do that.

“I don’t—” he starts, but Lise just shakes her head.

“Pull over,” she demands and reaches for her seatbelt.

“What?” he shoots her a look, a confused frown, foot easing off the gas.

“Pull over,” she repeats and the car crunches over gravel as he slows over the side of the winding Pennsylvania road. The seatbelt notification dings steadily as Lise reaches across his body and yanks the control of his seat before shifting and in one quick movement, straddles his lap.

“Come on, Mister Graydon, we’re empty nesters, let’s have some fun, hm?”

His brows inch up, but then she’s hiking up her sundress and rolling her hips over his lap and he huffs out a laugh, and thinks,  _why not._

 

This is what they do best, after all.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                Sofie writes him, her penmanship smoothing out over the span of a few months:

 _This is stupid,_  she writes in an uneasy cursive, n _o one writes letters anymore. Have none of these old ladies heard of email?_

He laughs at his desk, leaning back in his chair and flipping through the pages she’s written.

_Horses smell, you know. Like pretty bad, actually. There’s nothing fancy about them, they smell and they poop when you ride them._

_Archery is okay, and they have a track team and softball league. You can’t pay me enough to play Polo._

_Will you bring me a chocolate bar the next time you come, we never get junk food. I’m dying, literally._

He snorts and makes a note on his phone to pick some up for her for the next weekend.

_I think this is copy fourteen, they don’t let us use white-out. My hand hurts. If anyone asks, I’m telling you how much I love Walt Whitman._

 

She ends every letter with  _I miss you._

 

 

 

               

                “Is that your _Dad_?”

Sofie’s roommate gasps from the other bed; her homework forgotten as she looks across the gap between their beds and at Sofie’s computer.

“Yeah,” Sofie nods and flicks to another picture.

 “He’s so hot,” Sarah slips off her bed and shoves her way onto Sofie’s bed to look at her computer screen. “Oh my  _God_.”

“What?” Sofie tries to jerk her computer back but Sarah’s reaching over to grab it and flip to the next picture with another  _oh my God_.

It’s from a beach vacation taken last summer, Sofie remembers him tossing her mother into the waves, outrage turned to laughter as she emerged soaked through, her wide-brimmed hat sagging from water.

The photo is one of Tom with his hand on his stomach, his head back and laughing, all shiny from water and the glint of the sun.

Sofie looks at the photo, at the man she remembers from that night, the only thing she really remembers from that night, just pieces of it after all these years. She remembers his voice, and his warmth and…

Objectively, Sofie can understand, he is pretty fit for…thirty, she thinks. She’s pretty sure he’s thirty.

But he’s still her Dad and she shoves at Sarah’s shoulder and shoots her a glare. “That’s gross, he’s my dad.”

“But he’s  _hot,_ ” she whines. “Let me see more.”

“No! Seriously, what’s wrong with you,” Sofie snaps the laptop shut, and glares at Sarah who’s still sitting on her bed, her bottom lip poking out.

“That’s mean, Sofie, you shouldn’t hide that from the world,” Sarah shifts, turns to face her, her legs folded and an excited look on her face. “What’s he do? How old is he?”

“He’s a cop,” Sofie states with a frown. “A detective, actually. And, you know. Married. To my _mom._ ”

 “Oh, come on, it’s no big deal,” Sarah laughs, looking down at the laptop and then flopping back down on the pillows. “Have you seen most of the boys and dads around school? They’re like…so boring. Your dad is definitely like, the hottest one. My sister would  _die,_  literally, we need to show her.”

Sofie feels her eyebrows rise sharply, “I’m not spreading my  _dad_ around school, that’s weird.”

And  _he’s mine,_  Sofie thinks to herself.  _Go get your own._  

 

It ends up spreading anyway. Sofie doesn’t talk to Sarah for a week.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

              The first year is harder than he expects, he’s gotten too used to Sofie’s brightness in his life, in meeting her for lunch on Friday’s since the precinct is less than ten minutes from Briar Hill. Misses weekends teaching her how to fight. Misses morning breakfast and the car ride before school. Misses seeing her shock of blonde hair wandering through the precinct when she comes to meet him at the end of the school day for a ride home.

 Tom’s sure even Lise feels the same.

The house gets too quiet and too empty. It’s… odd being alone with just Llise, he realises they’ve never done this before; never had a period to be two adults without a kid between them. He thinks neither one of them are sure what to do with themselves.

The only benefit to Sofie being gone is that they fuck more than they have in years. There’s still that connection between them, a friendship that borders into something more. It’s an easy stress relief, an easy way to connect with one another without bothering with words or complications.

It’s like a glimpse of what could have been, what their relationship could possibly have been years ago and never got a real chance to be; not burdened under loss and homicide and trials…

It’s… _good_ , he thinks. _Uncomplicated_.

It’s possibly the only thing that gets him through the year.

But— 

It’s odd, missing someone, he’s never really felt it before.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                The second year of Trafalgar is worse than the first, a thirteen-year-old Sofie is one that wants less than nothing to do with any of the girls she boards with.

 _They’re terrible,_  she writes, words perfectly formed but angle sharp in irritation.  _I hate it here._

 

_I miss you._

 

 

* * *

 

                The Christmas break of that school year results in a screaming match between mother and daughter, Sofie flat out refuses to return for third year, threatens to run away, which Tom knows is a crock of shit, but he keeps his mouth shut and leans against the doorway and watches the angry volley of words being tossed back and forth between the two.

“I’ll fail every subject,” Sofie threatens. “I’ll skip classes—”

“I’ll send you to Switzerland—”

“I’ll fucking—”

He stifles a grin, bites his cheek to hold in the humour at the look of shock and then fury that spills over Lise’s face.

“Young lady, if you  _ever—_ ”

 

               

                The fight ends in a peace treaty made in an exchange: one more year of Trafalgar, one more attempt ( _real attempt, Sofie, not a half-assed one_ ) to enjoy it…and if she still wants to leave, still wants to come home to Briar Hill then Lise will allow it.

Sofie takes it, a victorious light in her eyes that makes him laugh, impressed at her ability to barter and haggle her way out of something that Lise and the grandparents were so set on.

( _Mother’s going to be pissed,_ Lise says later, _what am I going to tell her?_

Tom shrugs, _say she’s unhappy, that’s what should matter, shouldn’t it?)_

He takes Sofie out for ice cream after and does not say  _well done¸_ but Sofie smiles like she knows it anyway.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                He arrives the second last Saturday of June to Sofie waiting on the curb of the visitor parking a large black bag folded over her arms.

“H...ey,” he greets, stunned as she slips into the car, the bag ruffling and puffing as she yanks it in over her lap, struggling with the poufy mass of it.

He blinks at her, until she looks up at him and glowers; her a mass of dirty-blonde curls, hair-sprayed into ringlets that have frayed out in the heat.

“Don’t even,” she warns with a huff. “One of the older girls is having a cotillion themed birthday and she invited half the freaking school.”

She pulls a face as she tries to push hair away from her face, but her fingers snag on the sticky, chemical heavy curls.

“I…didn’t think anyone did those anymore,” he says blankly, staring at her hair.

 

 

                “ _Dad_ ,” Sofie warns, voice drawing out the word; but it’s too late she can see the humour as it moves across his face, as he cracks a crooked grin and he reaches out to tug a stiff curl and lets his humour loose in a loud, rough laugh.

“You look like Farah Fawcett,” he forces out in between his laughter.

“You’re the worst,” she complains, head dropping into her hands. “And I don’t know who that is.”

He chuckles, shutting off the car and motioning to the bag. “That your dress?”

“Yeah,” Sofie says, glaring down at it. “It’s even  _worse._ ”

“I can imagine. I think cotillions are a competition of who can wear the most frill.”

Sofie laughs, turning her head to look at him, cheek in her palm, elbows lost to the black dress bag over her lap. “So you’ll think of some way I don’t have to go?”

“Its tonight?”

She nods, “Yeah, at five or something.”

“You should probably go, shouldn’t you?” he questions, shifting in the seat and stretching his legs out as best he can. “If the girl invited you, and you’ve already got the…” he motions to her hair and dress; a smirk pulling up on his lips. “The whole…outfit.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much the reason  _not_  to go.”

“It’s only a couple of hours, won’t kill you, Sof.”

“I’ll go if you come with me,” she blurts, it falls out of her mouth before she can catch it, she flushes, thinks about taking it back but he’s laughing and shaking his head.

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” he grins wide, a deep laugh chasing it.

“Well, then I’m not going either,” Sofie says decisively with a huff just as the quiet of the parking lot and the humming air-conditioning in the car gets broken apart by a sudden swell of voices and laughter; Sofie instinctively sinks a little lower in her seat when she glances over and sees the group of girls leaving the dormitories.

She groans when their voices pick up, calling out to her when they notice her in the car.

 “Sofie! Is that your dad?”

Sofie sinks lower in the seat, wishing the window was rolled up; _(or that rolling it up wouldn’t be completely an asshole move,_ she thinks.)

“Hey, Sofie! Mister Graydon!”

They move like a hive mind, a giggle spreading from one to another as they approach the car, leaning a little low to peer into Sofie’s open window.

“Mister Graydon,” one of the girl’s asks, her voice airy and laugh-bright. “You’re a cop, right?”

He nods, sunglasses glinting in the sun as they stand by Sofie’s window and look into the car. “Detective, actually,” he mirrors Sofie’s words and Sofie wishes the ground would open up.

“Sofie’s told us all about you,” Emma smiles, and drags her teeth over her bottom lip. “You seem so  _interesting._ ”

No, she thinks, maybe just the bit of ground the girls are standing on.

 

                He pauses, the tone of the girl’s voice throws him off compared to the sight of the teenager looking at him. He looks at Sofie’s flush, her adverted eyes, the rigid line of Sofie holding herself still and then back at the gaggle of girls and—

Nearly bursts out laughing.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks, that tone was definitely intentional.

“You going come with Sofie to my party, Mister Graydon?” the girl asks, her eyes focused on him.

“You don’t want some parent crashing the night,” he holds in his laugh as best he can, teeth sharp in a grin. “But I’ll be sure to drop Sofie off in time for your party—”

“Oh, but you wouldn’tbe _crashing_ it _,_ ” the girl giggles and he thinks  _Jesus, when did teenage girls get so forward._  “I’d  _love_  to have you come. I bet you’re a great _dancer.”_

“I’ll think about it, hm? But now Sof and I have some plans, so you girls take a few steps back from the car, alright?”

There’s a chorus of  _yessirs_  followed by laughter and he starts the car, cool air blowing out of the vents as the engine turns over and he backs up.

“Oh, I’d  _love_  to have you come,” Sofie says in a high voice, face twisting before she makes a retching noise.

He laughs, turning out onto the school’s long drive and back to the main highway, “Laying it on a bit thick, huh?”

 

                Sofie groans, drops her face back into her hands and mutters, “She’s the  _worst_. She’s my roommate’s older sister.”

 _Pretty sure they want to steal my laptop to steal your pictures,_  she doesn’t say. That was just was too weird to say out loud.

“Well, at least you only have, what, two weeks left before summer?” he pulls onto the highway his focus on the road, and Sofie watches his profile before picking at the mountainous black cloud of bag covered dress in her lap.

She thinks about begging him not to make her go, maybe she could convince him to go…or maybe she could pop a tire and then they’d be stuck at the park and they could just camp out and not worry about stupid sixteen-year-old girls and their stupid sixteen-year-old friends with their stupid crushes on her  _dad._

She pouts at nothing, feeling annoyed and reaches for the radio dial, flipping channels absently.

Eventually, Tom makes another turn and pulls into the state park they frequent whenever the weather is nice enough to spend the day outside. The car shuts off and as the cool air stops, Sofie turns to look at him as he reaches into the backseat to grab her spare running shoes.

“What are you going to do about that hair?” he smirks as she slips off her sneakers and into the dirtier running shoes.

Sofie touches her head and then grimaces. “Dunk my head in the river?”

He laughs and slips out of the car; the warning dings slowly as the driver side door stays open and he heads to the trunk. Sofie watches him grab the cooler and tug a water bottle out of the case that perpetually stays packed in his car.

He comes back to her window, placing one water bottle on the roof before uncapping the cold one and taking a long swallow.

“I have an idea,” he starts and passes cold water bottle to her; Sofie takes a sip and throws him a questioning look as she recaps the bottle.

“Here,” he motions for her to turn. “Put your head out of the window.” Sofie turns, puts the mess of curls out over the window and rests the back of her neck on the doorframe.

“Honestly, I didn’t know hair could be this stiff,” he laughs, fingers catching every time he tries to collect it into one long line of hair. His fingers skim over her forehead and temples, pulling more hair away from her face; Sofie lets her eyes close as he starts to pour the warm water bottle over her hair, fingers pulling through the slowly loosening, tacky hair spray until her is wet enough that his fingers pull through it easily.

The car dings slowly and fills the silence, before long he’s leaning forward and down and pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead.

“Much better,” he says, his breath warm over her forehead, soft and low. “Now you look more like my Sofie.”

Sofie grins, turning to sit up and looking over at him; he grins with amusement as he rests his hands on the window frame, watching as Sofie sits straighter and reaches up to her hair. She runs her own fingers through it—

There’s something twisting in her stomach, clenching tight, all hot—

She twists the length of her hair up and into a knot on her head and pushes out a slow breath.

“Why’d you bring the dress anyway?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe and raises a brow.

“Was hoping it would terrify you into letting me skip the party,” Sofie answers, forcing a smile as she secures the bundle with an elastic.

He laughs and nods, pulling a face like  _makes sense._  “Well, let’s see it then, before I decide to aid and abet your truancy.”

“It’s mercy, like a plea bargain,” she offers, unzipping the dress bag. “Like my humiliation for a little bit of leniency…it’s worth it, right?”

He huffs a laugh, crossing his arms before turning around and leaning against the door to let her slip the seat back and wiggle into the dress in moderate privacy. Sofie glances at his back when she changes, her belly warm and tight, something in her nerves making her—

Something.

She looks away, focussing on wiggling into the dress.

 

                “Alright,” she says behind him. “I’m coming out with my hands up, don’t laugh.”

“I’ll do my best,” he drawls and stands straighter as she pushes the door open.

When she emerges, he’s momentarily taken aback by how much older she looks, face a bit sharper, bones a bit less obvious… she’s still terribly small, but she’s not the kid he’s used to seeing.

The dress isn’t as hideous as he expected, it’s very…cotillion-esque. It’s a mass of a pale pink puffy tulle skirt that lands just below her knees and an off the shoulder capped sleeves. All rather modest but inherently feminine and it all reeks of one, if not both of the grandmothers.

“Grandma picked it out and sent it to me.” Sofie wrinkles her nose, plucking at the skirt to fluff it out more.

“The sneakers really make the outfit,” he smiles crookedly at her flush of embarrassment as she looks down, skirt moving in a ridiculous mass of pink tulle as she pushes it down to look at her worn runners.

He laughs, “How on earth could you even dance in that thing?”

“I know, right?” she looks up at him, a grin spreading across her face. “I could be one of those sumo suits that people bounce around in.”

He snorts, the image amusing him as he leans into the car and turns the ignition. The car purrs to life and he takes a moment to rifle through stations until he finds a slow tune and slips back out of the car to step up closer to Sofie with a falsely serious face.

He lifts his hand out in the gentlemanly gesture of a man waiting for a ladies hand. (He will not admit that Elise had to teach him how to dance properly and never admit how long it took him to learn to not look at his feet.)

“A dance then?” he offers, his palm up.

Sofie laughs, bright and humoured, her hand folding into his and then stepping closer so he can lay a hand across her lower back and folds their hands together out to the side of their bodies.

They start to move, a slow, easy circular step on the pavement of the parking lot beside the vehicle.

He looks down at her at watches a flush spread across her cheeks, a pink to match her dress, her eyes downcast, lashes long over her cheeks and he thinks she has to be hot, the sun beats over them mercilessly and a dress made of tulle, no matter how light, has to be hot in this weather.

He should probably get her more water, he thinks, but the music plays softly and Sofie’s hand tightens, just a little, in his. 

 

 

                Sofie keeps her eyes focused on the row of buttons down his chest, but her body is burning up, her mind spinning away from her… Tom holds her close, one of his large hands spans the small of her back easily; it spreads a low, lingering heat through her body and Sofie thinks: _this was a bad idea_.

The music plays softly around them as he leads her through the steps of the slow dance, his body warmer than the air and the sun combined, burning against her everywhere they touch.

She feels—

It sticks to her, pricks her skin, makes her face flush and her body too hot. She feels small and…and… _something._

Sofie tells herself she’s always felt small against him, has always felt safe and surrounded by Tom, ever since that first night, ever since she can remember… but now…now all she feels is  _aware._

Aware of his warmth, his bulk, the muscles she knows lie beneath the cotton shirt, his height and how easily he can—

“Alright?” he asks, voice low, his hand burning against her lower back.

Sofie nods, not trusting her voice at all.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

* * *

Chapter III

* * *

 

 

 

 

           His cell phone screen lights up on the console, a low buzz against the dash; he glances at it as he drives down the highway, debating answering it.

It’s still early, not quite eight but the sun is bright already, bearing down over the landscape; distantly the weather man drones on about  _today’s high of 84, nighttime low of—_

He reaches for the phone and slides the lock screen, well aware that he shouldn’t be looking at it at all.

> _S: eta?_

He types back, _Twenty,_ his eyes darting between the road and the phone, watching for when it finally pops up with a little  _delivered_. Tom sets the phone back on the dash before turning his focus back on the winding Pennsylvania roads.

 

 

 

          Eighteen minutes later, he’s pulling into the parking lot of Trafalgar and heading up the stone steps towards the front desk to sign in and sign the final paperwork for Sofie’s official discharge from the school.

There are parents and young girls milling about, some with a few bags, others with only one. He can assume most are only heading home for the summer; returning to the same dorms come fall and don’t need to pack up everything they’ve been living with for the last few years, unlike Sofie.

The young woman at reception fumbles through an explanation of the pages he has to sign, her cheeks growing red whenever she flicks her eyes up to his face. He smiles politely, thinks she’s probably used to the white-haired old men or the younger, rich breeds of father that come and go out of a place like Trafalgar.

He definitely does not blend in. Surrounded by tan shorts and cargo pants, ironed polo shirts and summer blazers, Tom stands out. Dressed in nothing more than glorified gym clothes, a dark t-shirt and loose knee-length shorts.

With moving Sofie out, he figured he’d be hauling boxes and bags, and with the forecast the way it is, he didn’t need to be doing that in a suit, or even casual business attire like he normally wears.

He  _definitely_  sticks out, he thinks, watching another middle-aged couple pass by, each wearing a pastel sort of peach, like they wanted to be a matching set.

Tom signs his name across the highlighted sections, glancing around at the other people moving in and out of the office, mostly older women, some men, nearly all of them teachers if the emblem on their shirts is anything to go by.

He signs the last page and gets a copy of Sofie’s records and reports. And as he’s signing it, notices a yellow sheet with  _Disciplinary Action_ in bold along the top of it. He glances at it, reaching out to nudge it up a little and the receptionist looks at him and winces.

“She’s a bit…” she cuts off, half-smiles. “Spirited.”

Tom bites back a smile or tries to, but fails miserably and laughs. “Yeah, she’s something alright.”

 After signing the last line, offering a polite _goodbye_ and a smile to the receptionist, who flushes her own reply and shuffles the work around on her desk in a flustered manner, Tom heads off out of the office, down the hallway and back towards the entrance.

His smile twitches out again as he pulls out the yellow paper; a long list of dates and assigned detentions, typed clearly in black ink. The first dating back to September of her first year, then long periods of nothing before a burst of citations for language. There’s another gap with only a few dates for her second year but as the date shuffles into 2017 the citations grow exponentially.

 _Someone was getting fed up,_ he thinks and stifles a laugh, reading over the growing list of Unacceptable Behaviours as determined by Trafalgar’s Educational Board.

_Language, fighting, refusal to attend weekend extra-curricular activities, lack of participation in equine sports, language, language, language, truancy, truancy, lack of involvement and social participation with fellow students, language._

_Engaging in antagonistic behaviour towards an older student._

Tom can guess which one that was.

He wonders why the administration never called, but then, maybe they did and Lise already knew about all of it. Or, more likely, he thinks, the Rowens smoothed all of it over with a few well-placed words and cheques.

When he reaches the car, Tom tucks the paper back into the pile and folds it all back up in the folder it came in and drops it onto the backseat, thinking to tease Sofie about it later.

The car beeps as he locks it, turning to head off to the stone pathway that leads towards the dorms.

 

 

 

           The front building is loud, busier than when they moved in and he realises most years he just picks Sofie up at the curb, her bags already packed and the girl nearly leaping into the still moving car.

Girls move in and out of rooms, music blaring from all angles; rap and pop, lyrics they probably _shouldn’t_ be listening to on campus or really around some of the younger years, he thinks. But Tom can’t help but take a bit of mean pleasure in knowing that for all their efforts to refine these kids into proper members of society, into perfect well-mannered women, that they are all still just teenagers.

A loud squeal of laughter breaks over the music, followed by more peals of high-pitched laughter a few doors after Sofie’s and he winces at the pitch of it and thinks of that girl who had very nearly propositioned him in the school parking lot with no care at all.

He snorts,  _proper girls, my ass._

Sofie’s door sits ajar and he leans against the frame, watching as Sofie shines the bright blue-ish light from her phone underneath her bed. Everything looks packed up, boxes piled near the door, a suitcase and backpack on the bed, her duffle bag on the floor.

“Checking for the boogeyman?” he asks, moving further in and dropping on the still made, but currently empty bed of Sofie’s roommate. “Sarah gone?”

Sofie jolts, fumbling her phone and cursing, he thinks of the citation and can’t hold in his smile.

“Oh, crap,” she exhales, sitting back on her knees and pressing a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he chuckles and reaches out to pick a piece of fluff out of the messy knot of her hair piled on her head; Sofie’s eyes flick up to watch the movement and then she shrugs and pushes to her feet.

“She’s off with her sister,” she shoves her bag over and plops down on her bed. “They were going to go swimming or something, I wasn’t really listening.”

“Isn’t today the last day?” he looks over the room, Sarah’s side of the dorm covered in posters and pictures, heart shapes around some boy’s faces in some of the posters. His lip curls a bit, he’s incredibly glad Sofie isn’t like that.

“Today and tomorrow,” she pushes to her feet, hauls her backpack, stuffed to bursting over her shoulder and tilts her head towards the door. “I’m totally ready whenever you are.”

“ _Totally_ ready,” he teases the way her voice sounds, pitching his voice higher. Tom pushes to his feet, grabs up the suitcase on the bed but Sofie shake her head and reaches for it.

“It’s got wheels,” she explains and extends the handle. “I got this one.”

He leans down to grab up the boxes, piling two on top and hefting them up. “Jesus, what did you pack in here?”

“Grandma sent me a series of encyclopedias.” She winces as he shuffles the boxes, finding a better grip. “I can help—”

“With what, one book at a time?” he teases, moving towards the door. “You’re like ninety pounds, Sof. The box would pancake you.”

“I am not,” she says high and offended. “I passed one hundred last year,” she finishes indignantly as she flexes a thin arm, pushing her t-shirt sleeve up and poking the tiny bump of muscle. “See?”

He’d tickle it if he had a free hand, but they move down the hall, stepping around girls and bags and all he can do is smirk and raise a brow.

“Baby muscles,” he grins at her, using his back to push the door open, letting Sofie pass by him before he follows her towards the car.

“They are not _baby muscles_ ,” she defends. “They’re in progress. They’re pending—”

“They’re cute,” he finishes, and then they’re at the car and he turns to her, extending the boxes. “Here, hold this.”

Sofie extends her arms on reflex and he grins, letting a little of the weight of the boxes sink into her arms and she staggers, cursing as he laughs and pulls them back up.

“So helpful,” he grins, and Sofie rolls her eyes at him, smacking his arm.

“That’s why they’re in  _progress_ ,” she says loftily, crossing her arms. “It’s not my fault you’re all…” she trails off gesturing to his upper body and arms. “Superman-y.”

“Not a big fan of tights though,” he retorts as he sets the boxes down so he can pop the back hatch open; he grabs the suitcase, shifting it in and shoving it to the back of the SUV before he slides the boxes in after them. “Stay here? I’ll go grab the rest.”

 “No, I’ll come,” she insists and does a quick few steps to catch up to his longer stride and keep pace.

As they make their way back through the halls, someone calls Sofie’s name and she gets tugged into a hug or two, a few girls shoot him some looks as he waits at her side. He can’t help but feel more than a bit like a giant standing between a bunch of toddlers.

“Mister Graydon,” he turns and barely holds in a wince when he sees the cotillion girl from two weeks ago. _Emma,_ he thinks. She moves towards him, a towel folded over her arm and wearing possibly the tiniest shorts in existence with a swim top that leaves very little to the imagination.

He focuses on her ear.

“Hello,” he greets, glancing back at Sofie who’s been tugged into a room and is trying to edge her way back towards the door.

The girl steps closer and Tom barely holds in the desire to step back and put more space between them as she extends a hand and smiles. “I’m Emma.”

He bites back the urge to call out for Sofie and takes the girls hand gently, giving it a brief shake. “Tom Graydon.”

“You know my father works for the New York Board Association and he says you’re a great cop."

“Detective,” he clarifies, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

“Detective,” she smiles and stands straighter, chest pushed out a little more as she cocks a hip, he refuses to look down; that way leads to  _trouble_. “I was thinking about a career in law enforcement.”

He highly, highly doubts it but swallows back the urge to laugh and angles back to try to find Sofie in the crowded dorm room again. “Oh, are you?” he replies distantly.

“Mm-hm, you think we could talk sometime?” she licks her lips, eyes focused on him and he thinks,  _fucking hell, this girl is shameless._

And then, briefly,  _thank fuck, Sof isn’t like this either._

He’s saved from answering as small fingers slip through his crossed arms and tuck into the bend of his elbow.

“Hey, Emma,” Sofie smiles but it’s not quite honest, her eyes are too sharp, Tom looks down at her and tries not to laugh at the obvious irritation that lies on it. “We should get going, Dad, don’t want to be late.”

Sofie tugs at his arm and they move forward as Emma’s smile falters, “Oh, really? Why don’t you come swimming,” she blinks, wide-eyed, a pout on her glossed lips. “The water’s, like, perfect today.”

“We’re good, thanks, have a great life, Emma!” Sofie call back over her shoulder.

She tugs him into the dorm and the door shuts too loudly behind her. “See you  _never_ ,” she mutters to the closed door.

“That was rude,” he laughs down at Sofie who looks up at him with a frown on her face as she leans against the door.

“You know who that was, right?” she frowns.

“Emma. The Cotillion girl.”

“She’s like…kind of a ho,” Sofie says scrunching her nose. “Like, more than kind of, actually.”

He laughs, can’t stop the humour at the situation, at brazen sixteen-year-olds, at Sofie’s face as she says it; like being a bit promiscuous at sixteen isn’t pretty much a standard thing.

“You go to an all-girls school, Sofie, how promiscuous could she be?”

Her eyebrows go up, her face displaying an impressive amount of disbelieving,  _honestly?_ “Uh, pretty easily, actually. The all-boys campus isn’t that far away and you know there are summers and holidays. She kind of likes to brag.”

He snorts, can see that the girl would be one to spin stories.

 _Wait._  

“They let you go to the boy’s campus?” he questions, his brows sinking together at the thought.

Sofie pushes off the door and shrugs. “No, but it’s not like there’s a perimeter fence or anything, girls sneak out.”

“Do you?” he asks, and almost doesn’t want the answer, hopes to God it’s no, isn’t sure what he’d do if he found out she’s been sneaking out to make out with boys—

Or do more than make out with boys.

She’s only fourteen, Sofie wouldn’t… _right_?

 _Holy shit_ , he thinks, what if she—

She shoots him a narrowed-eyed scornful look. “ _Dad_.”

_Right. Thank God._

He pulls her into a hug. “Who knew that the proper all-girls school would be worse than Briar Hill, huh?”

Sofie snorts, wrapping her arms around his waist, pushing her forehead against his chest. She’s still so short, even though she may, objectively, look older than that little girl he found on the stairs, she’s still the smallest thing he’s ever seen and he is unabashedly fond of this fact.

Although, mostly he’s just unabashedly fond of her.

 “Want to know something absolutely horrific?” she tilts her head up to look at him, he brushes a piece of loose hair from her face, smiling crookedly.

“What?”

“I have photos on my computer, right? Like from Mexico last year, and the summer, and…” she bites her lip, face twisting like she doesn’t want to say anything else. “Well, I was looking through them and Sarah saw them…that’s how  _everyone_  knows who you are.”

“That’s not really horrific, Sof,” he shrugs, raising a brow. “I’ve got pictures of us on my desk.”

“I know, but Emma, that’s Sarah’s sister, right, she told her about you, even though I told her not to and then they wanted to see what Sarah was talking about so they totally stole my computer and—”

“They _stole_ your computer,” he frowns, trying to follow along with the rush of words but getting caught on  _stole._

“I got it back, they didn’t really  _steal_  it, they were…well, like…” she presses her face back into his ribs, her voice muffled. “They all think you’re hot.”

 

           He laughs, cupping the back of her head, chest rumbling as it continues on for longer than Sofie thinks it should, she doesn’t find any of this funny at all.  _Horrific. Gross. Aggravating._  But not  _funny_.

She looks up at him, feeling petulant. “Pretty sure that if Emma had a diary every page would be full of  _Mrs Emma Graydon,_ with like, lipstick kisses and your face in hearts and stuff.”

“Well,” he makes a face. “That was certainly…detailed.”

“And true,” she sulks.

He snorts, shaking his head before his list twist up into a smirk as he looks down at her. “So you came to rescue me from her wiles?”

Sofie huffs, cheeks warm, but says with a firm surety, “She could have jumped you at any moment.”

“I think I can handle one overly friendly teenager,” he chuckles. “She isn’t much taller than you.”

He picks her up, hefting from the waist and lifting her over his shoulder, Sofie laughs, hands knotting into his shirt to try to straighten up so she isn’t dangling upside down.

“See, not a problem,” their laughter mingles and fills the room.

She squirms as she tries to get down, and then stills, his hand lands, wide and warm on the back of her thigh and it—

Sparks inside of her, sends a trill of a feeling up her spine she has no name for except,  _oh God._

All her nerves seem to light up, focused on the one hot palm that’s holding her still, heavy over her upper thigh, thumb on the inside of it, high enough its all she can focus on.

Tom shifts her back down, an impressive shrug from his shoulder to holding her, an arm tight around her waist to keep her in his arms, her feet still dangling off the ground.

“I think I can handle myself,” he smiles, Sofie can feel her face heat, so she wraps her arms around his neck and buries her head into his shoulder. He laughs, a low breathless thing, and presses a kiss to her shoulder; Sofie can think of nothing but the heat coming off of him, and her mind spins images like a carousel of colours: wrapping her legs around his waist, his thumb going _higher,_ his mouth—

 _I’m fucked,_  she thinks.  _There’s something wrong with me._

Tom lets her down, and Sofie bites her cheek, her lip, her disappointment as sharp as her teeth, as sharp as her relief…has no idea what’s wrong with her.

“We should finish up and get some breakfast, visit that diner one more time,” he grabs the last box and her duffle bag, completely oblivious to Sofie’s sudden catastrophic mental breakdown; so she forces herself to move, grabs her soccer ball, her baseball bat, and as he reaches for the doorknob he hesitates and grins over his shoulder.

“You think we could jump out the window?”

They don’t, obviously, he wouldn’t risk her getting hurt for something like that, but they manage to head down the hall with little distraction and by the time they're pulling out of Trafalgar one last time, Sofie flips stations and forgets all about her little moment of—

Of whatever  _that_  was.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                Of course, because the world apparently _hates_ her, Sofie gets two weeks into her summer vacation, settling into the routine of breakfast, gym, fantastic amounts of free time and then—

Tom gets a new case… or some case he isn’t talking about yet. Either way, he’s out of the house before she wakes and not back most nights until after dinner.

He still makes time for her on the weekends, so she accepts the realities of his career and comforts herself with the knowledge that next weekend he promised to show her how to disarm an attacker; she’s looking forward to it more than she can say.

But it doesn’t help the disappointment she feels when she heads down to breakfast every morning and sees his mug already sitting in the sink.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

                                                                                               

 

> _S: Are you coming home?_
> 
> T: _Don’t know. Probably be pretty late._
> 
> _S: :(_
> 
> _T: I know._

 

“Sofie, not at the table,” her mother says absently as she finishes off her wine. Sofie rolls her eyes, pushing back from the table and slipping her phone in her pocket.

“I’m done anyway,” she picks up her plate to clear it, scrapping it into the recycling bin and then heading back for the other dishes. “You done?”

Lise nods and moves to grab the rest of the items off the table; clearing away Tom’s empty place setting.

Sofie's loading the last of the dishes when her phone buzzes.

> _I’ll come say goodnight when I get in._

She sighs, tucks it back in her pocket and finishes cleaning up.

 

 

 

           “Do you know what he’s working on?” Theo’s image blurs as he moves around his room; Sofie sits at her desk, her knee pulled up and her chin resting on her knee as she watches him collecting his clothes, dumping things on his bed and giving a few things a sniff.

“Nice,” she comments, plucking at the hem of her knee highs. “Sanitary.”

Theo shrugs, lifting another shirt up and tossing it into a hamper. “So, do you?”

“No,” she checks the still blank screen of her phone, the time in the corner of the computer screen,  _nine-thirty._ “It usually takes a while before he’s willing to tell me anything about his cases. I didn’t see anything on the news, did you?”

Theo shakes his head, “Nope, nada.”

Sofie sighs, laying her cheek on her knee.

“Hey, what are we doing for your birthday?”

Sofie shrugs, “I dunno, haven’t thought about it.”

“We should do something corny, like laser tag, or…bowling,” he laughs, the image blurring rapidly as he picks up his laptop and moves to the bed, dropping down on his stomach.

“ _Bowling_ ,” Sofie says dubiously. “No one  _likes_  bowling.”

“I do,” Theo smiles. “But seriously, we need to do  _something_ , we never do anything for your birthday. Maybe Grace will have some ideas.”

“Grace will say we should get drunk,” Sofie laughs.

“Well, maybe—”

“My dad’s a  _detective,_ Theo. You think he wouldn’t notice us drinking?”

“We could go to Grace’s, her parents are never home,” he offers.

“Yeah, maybe,” there’s shouting muffled through Theo’s computer and he’s yelling back, irritated,  _I’m coming!_

“I gotta go, Sofie, I’ll talk to you later,” his screen snaps shut, the connection dying on her screen. 

Sofie sighs, glances at the still dark screen of her phone and opens her browser to scroll, one more time, through the week’s news articles, hunting for information.

 

 

Hours later, curled up beneath her duvet and half lost to sleep and dreams, Sofie feels a hand on her shoulder, a weight sinking into the bed and a brief press of lips over her forehead and then nothing but dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

                The world apparently  _really, truly, undeniably, hates her,_ she thinks, because she wakes up on her fifteenth birthday to no Tom, but to her mother’s parents sitting with her mother at the kitchen island.

“Happy birthday!”

Sofie gets a hugged and squeezed and kissed, fawned over by her grandmother about  _what a lovely young lady you’re turning into Sofie,_  which turns into the regular,  _but I wish you’d wear better clothes._

Sofie tunes it out, it’s nothing she hasn’t heard. Gramma Gloria hates any variation of anything that could be considered comfortable or practical, which is essentially what Sofie lives in; sneakers, hoodies, t-shirts, shorts and leggings.  _But really,_ she thinks,  _they aren’t the one stuck in a school uniform five days out of seven._

And then, as Sofie’s head is off and thinking about clothes, Lise looks at her and says, with a wide and happy grin:

“Your grandparents are going to take you to France with them.”

“France?” Sofie gapes,  _France?_

“Isn’t it great? I went when I was sixteen, but we thought you might like it this year before you head back to Briar Hill.”

What Sofie imagine she means is:  _They think you need more culture, seeing as you quit Trafalgar._

“Oh, uh,” Sofie blinks, mind spinning. Knows she can’t say no, not when there are three faces staring at her so expectantly. “That’s awesome. When? For how long?”

“Next week, and for a whole month!” Lise wraps her up in a hug, brimming with enough excitement to more than make up for Sofie’s lack of enthusiasm.

_A month!_

“A month?” Sofie’s eyes go wide, her mouth dropping open. “But— but, it’s my birthday and Dad was going to—”

“Oh, Tom’s too busy with that case,” Lise waves off Sofie’s words. “No reason for you to sit home all day and not do anything. You’ll love France just as much as I did.”

 _Like I loved Trafalgar,_  Sofie thinks.  _We aren’t the same person,_  she wants to say.  _Can’t you see that?_

“That’s great,” she forces a smile even while she feels her insides start to crumble. She had plans _, damn it._  She doesn’t want to go to France. She doesn’t want to spend a month with her grandparents in a foreign country and no…no  _Tom_.

Her throat feels tight and Sofie nods along and smiles as they show her the hotel, the day plans, the cities they’re going to visit.

But all she can think about is that her phone hasn’t gone off once.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                She’s staring at nothing, blinking into the dark, muffled voices filling the silence. A deep timbre that feels subdural as it rolls through the walls, the other voice higher, sharper; an argument she can’t catch the words to, just the reverberations of it.

A door slams; footsteps echoing down the stairs, another door shutting.

The house falls silent.

Sofie stares at the dark, barely lit walls of her room, the angle of moonlight coming in from the window; she waits and listens. Thinks, _he didn’t call you. He knows. Knew. He—_

Then why the argument?

Sofie bites her lip, debates it for another moment before she can’t stop the itch of her curiosity, the itch of wanting to see him and slides out of bed. Slips carefully out of her room, puts her weight on the bannister to avoid creaking stairs; steps softly towards Tom’s study and doesn’t bother knocking before she slips inside and shuts the door with a small  _click_  behind her.

The room is dark, lit up only by the streetlights outside and the moonlight tinting in through the windows. Tom leans against the open window, a drink in one hand and a low red flare of a lit cigarette that moves in the half-dark as he takes a long drag.

“You _smoke_?” she blurts, shocked still, rooted to the chilly wood floor and blinking at the sight; air conditioning making her shiver in the quiet, half-dark.

Tom’s eyes flick up and over to her, blowing out a lungful and stabbing out the rest of the cigarette against the brick on the other side of the window.

“During bad cases,” he says, his voice as rough and low and quiet as the dark.

Sofie shivers again, moving towards him and leans on the opposite side of the window. Looking up at him, lit up by the moonlight, Sofie hesitates; a horn goes off in the distance, cars pass by, but she has no idea what to say.

He meets her eyes, swallows another mouthful, his glass glinting in the dark, setting the glass down on the window ledge, when he reaches out, tugging at the front of her sleep shirt, Sofie goes willingly. Gratefully, pressing her face into his chest and inhaling spice, smoke, some heady mix of smells that always make her feel warm or full or  _something._

“I didn’t know,” he says, it's quiet, rougher than before, deep as it rumbles out of his chest and against her cheeks.

Sofie nods, feels a prickle behind her eyes and a pain in her throat; thinks only that she’s never gone a month without him, never been more than a few hours away, never more than a phone call, never a  _whole fucking month_.

She pulls in a sharp breath, chest aching, and reaches up to his shoulders, knotting her fingers into his shirt and pulling. Tom leans down, wraps his arms around her and pulls her up, holding her tightly as her legs come up to wrap around his middle.

She thinks briefly, about some half-known memory, of being cold and scared and then warm and  _safe;_ of being alone and then  _not_.

Sofie wonders how the fuck she’s going to manage a month without that feeling.

 

           He turns eventually, rests her bottom on the window ledge and stands between her legs, her face still buried in his neck, arms tight over his shoulders, face warm and damp. He presses a kiss to her cheek, reaches for the half-finished pack of cigarettes; burns his lungs, acrid smoke that he pushes out the window in the dark night, one arm around her and holding his girl close.

Because she  _is_ , fuck whatever anyone else thinks, Sofie’s been his since he saw her on that staircase. No matter how much he thought otherwise, walking away was never even an _option._

Sofie clings on, can feel her hands knotted into the back of his shirt. He holds her tighter, rubs his hand over the bumps of her spine, presses another kiss to her cheek when he hears a little hitch, feels a little jerk of her breathing.

Tom wonders, briefly, how he’s going to make it an entire fucking month without her _._

 

 

_(You can’t just send her away whenever you’re mad at her._

_If I want to send her to fucking Tokyo, I will. She’s my daughter, Tom. Not yours._

_Right._

_I didn’t mean that—_

_Just…don’t.)_

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

Chapter IV

* * *

 

 

 

 

                Sofie chews furiously on her gum, air pressure building as the plane descends. Her leg bouncing, hands twisting into her dress hem; Grandma Gloria settles one cool, smooth hand on her knee again, stilling the jittering limb only for a few minutes before Sofie starts up again.

Outside the window, Sofie watches the expanding New York cityscape beneath her, the world turning from a blurry mass of colours to sun glinting towers, masses of buildings and bright yellow taxis sticking out against the dark colours of the highways below.

She flattens the hem of her sundress over her knees with slightly damp palms; sucks in a slow breath to feel her lungs expanding in an effort to stop the impatient tremble racing through her limbs. She watches the horizon tilt, buildings angling, sun bright and blinding as the plane makes a lowering turn towards JKF International. She wishes she didn’t feel so…so _anxious_ ; wishes she could stop herself from feeling so flustered when she knows it isn’t even the plane or the flight—

Her knee starts bouncing again. Her stomach one tight knot that has nothing at all to do with the plane’s descent, but far more to do with—

_(I’ll be there, Sof. 1230, right when you get off.)_

 “Sofie,” her grandmother’s soft hand lands on her knee again, and Sofie sinks her teeth into her gum, watching the cityscape shift into the dull grey of highways and landing strips, the airport below them expanding by the second.

_God, could this plane land any slower?_

The wheels extend, the plane flies down the runway, hovering over the ground until the soft jolt of the landing bumps through the cabin. The seatbelt sign dings and the plane fills with the chatter of travellers; passengers gathering baggage and standing up to wait for their turn to shuffle out into the aisle.

The stewardess welcomes them to New York, her accent thick, but voice clear; Sofie pops a bubble silently, bursting it on her tongue before her grandmother can chide her for it. She stands, pulling her backpack up from beneath the seat, legs unsteady from sitting so long…

At least, that’s what she tells herself, when really she knows it’s more from nerves; from the flood of anticipation and impatience that spills out of her fingertips and into a drumming motion against the seatback in front of her, waiting for her grandparents to get their things together.

Grandpa David grabs the carry on as Gloria rights her clothes, and presses a wrinkled hand over slightly wrinkled clothes, her purse tucked smartly beneath her arm. Sofie wonders how she does it, eight hours on a plane and she still looks just as put together as when they boarded. Sofie looks down at her own dress, the wrinkles at the hem from her knotting her fingers into it, the mess of her hair from braiding and unbraiding it in boredom, the stale feeling on her skin from a cabin full of recycled, dry air.

And of course, the fact that she looks about ready to fly out of her own skin in impatience; eyes flicking to the front of the aisle as the plane’s door opens and they finally,  _finally_  start shuffling towards the exit.

The stewardess smiles a red-lipped  _Au revoir, bonne journée_  as they pass, her grandparents respond politely while Sofie flashes something across her face meant to be a smile but comes out more pained as she shuffles along the ramp, nerves spiking in her stomach, a jittery feeling inside of her.

Which is stupid, she tells herself, it’s just Tom. It’s just—

She really missed him, that’s all.

The crowd moves along the ramp and off the plane. Out of manners, Sofie only strays a few feet ahead of her grandparents, but it’s frustrating to have to temper her pace; and then she feels like a brat because they just spent God knows how much money on her…So, she slows her pace again, walking closer to them.

They wind along the back of the airport, shuffling through the first set of checks and into the next. She tries to be as subtle as possible, tilting up on her toes as they reach the security checkpoint, looking over the crowds and lines to try to find—

And then she sees him, a dark head of hair, broad shoulders, his eyes scanning the crowds as he leans against a pillar up ahead. He’s obviously fresh from work, his collar undone, suit jacket long since gone, sleeves rolled over the thick of his forearms, crossed in front of him.

She bites back a laugh, for all that he’s her dad and can be so normal, he sure looks like a cop right now; face blank, body imposing, something authoritative about him even without words.

Sofie feels a grin spread on her face, wide and uncontrolled as she hands her passport to the guard who glances at her more than once and must be thinking that she’s unstable for grinning like a loon and staring off over the crowds.

With her heart thudding in her chest, filled up with a thrum of warmth and affection and…a thousand things that echo louder with every beat of her pulse, Sofie presses her lips together, and as soon as her passport is back in her hand she passes through the security line and forgets all about every lesson in manners and decorum her grandmother had spent the last month trying to instil in her.      

 

Tom hunts the crowds, looks for a ponytail, a knot of blonde hair sticking up from the crowd— for once wishing Sofie was a little taller so she would be a little more visible.

But then, he catches a flash of blonde and Sofie’s there, right in front of him, clearing the security line and rushing past another couple in front of her with a wide grin on her face that makes his stomach clench, makes his grin spread just as wide as hers is.

He straightens up off the wall, moving forward to meet her, but she’s all but running, flinging herself up and into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, laughter clear and bright and the best sound he’s heard in a fucking month, he swears.

He falters back a step, air pushed out of him at the force of her impact, at the force of having her back—

So he wraps her up, his own laugh spilling out; a wide smile on his face as she presses a kiss to his cheek.

“D’miss me?”

“So much,” he grins, and the relief, elation, joy at having her back is sharp and vivid, fills him up like nothing else ever has. “Did you miss me?”

“So much,” Sofie leans back in his arms smile a bit softer, but no less bright as their eyes meet. “More than anything.”

It’s…no more than second, a moment in time, but for that brief moment their eyes meet there’s nothing else in all the world but her and him and their heartbeats.

And then the world restarts; Tom blinks, Sofie wraps her arms around his neck and laughs again, all bright and high in his ear.

“ _Sofie_ ,” Gloria chides, tugging at the hem of Sofie’s dress. Tom meets Gloria’s disapproving gaze and offers a smile, not really ready to let Sofie go at all. “Get down. Thomas, honestly, she’s fifteen, not five.”

His lips twist up into a crooked grin, chastised but roguish; and Gloria  _tsks_ but her lips twitch in humour.

 Sofie leans back in his arms and he catches her eye roll, but she loosens her legs from his waist, her arms still tight around his neck ashe lets her go and she dangles off of him, an impish look on her face.

He snorts a laugh, plays at a weak effort to pull her off, but she only clings tighter. Gloria shakes her head, sighing about modesty and manners, but follows after her husband, who already has his phone in his hand and thumbs through emails as he walks towards the baggage claim.

Tom walks a few heavy steps, groaning like Sofie weighs a tonne; she laughs, drops off of him and falls into step beside him.

He looks down, eyes moving over her, “Nice dress,” he smirks, laying a heavy arm over her shoulders; Sofie shrugs, cheeks pink.

“You just  _can’t_ wander Paris without proper clothes, Sofie,  _darling_. You just  _can’t,_ ” she sharpens her voice, turns it polite and proper, a fair imitation of one Gloria Rowen

“Ah, gym shorts no good for the Paris fashion scene,” he nods like it’s obvious. “Tragic.”

“She bought me like forty dresses, I swear,” Sofie laughs. “I think she was honestly just happy to pick what I wore.”

“I’m surprised you let her,” he says, eyeing the Rowens in front of them, just out of earshot as they search for their luggage terminal.

“There’s only so many times you can get sighed at with a disappointed look or a head shake before it gets a bit annoying.”

He huffs a laugh, heavy arm pulling her into his side a little more; her body fitting against his side so easily. He looks down at her from the side, and Sofie looks up and smiles, a simple thing, an easy joy he can’t really explain, something that eases the spine and fills his chest with a slow warmth.

It’s good to have her back.

“The better question is: will you ever wear any of them again.”

Sofie snorts, and scrunches her nose. “Yeah…that’s doubtful.”

“Poor Gloria,” he sighs. “Tries so hard to make you a lady.”

Sofie elbows him, laughing. “Shut up, I’m such a lady.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawls, but can’t hold in his smile. “Tell that to my bruised ribs.”

Sofie rolls her eyes, shakes her head before tilting it to lean on his chest, as they watch the carousel start, the baggage sliding down the ramp.

 

 

                A black town car pulls up alongside the curb, Sofie hugs her grandparents tightly, thanks them both again for the trip and waves as the car pulls away, heading towards the highway.

Sofie blows out a breath and turns to look at him with a grin. “I would literally  _kill_  for a hot dog.”

He laughs, head tilting back, drags her close under his arm and they head off down the busy front entrance of JFK to where he parked, her suitcase rolling and bumping behind them in his hand.

“Well, Miss Graydon, tell me all about Paris.”

 

.

 

                “Gray’s or Criff’s?” Tom asks as they fly down the highway. He glances at her, leaning back in her seat, bare feet propped on the dash, flipping through her missed text messages, sunglasses perched on her head, dressed tucked between her thighs to stop it from slipping any higher. He thinks he should probably tell her to sit properly because it isn’t exactly a safe way to sit, but he doesn’t… thinks he’s missed the sight of her too much to care about how she takes up his space, just so long as she’s there to take it up.

“Uhm, Gray’s is closer to home, right?”

“Not that much a difference really.” He shrugs, turns his eyes back to the road, sunglasses dimming the glare of sunlight as he turns south and off the highway, heading towards her hot dog of choice.

Sofie tilts, shifting in her seat so she can reach for the radio dials and flip stations. “So, is your case done?”

 “My part in it is,” he says absently, tinted with irritation. “The rest isn’t up to us.”

“Are you ever going to tell me about it?” she asks, folding her legs and sitting cross-legged in the seat. He shakes his head, both at her and the question.

He thinks about the case, about what happened to the girls, how they found that last one, how...young and blonde she was.

How, for a heart-stopping moment, he thought only:

_God, no—_

And felt a terror in his chest as sharp and cold as a knife.

“Not this one, Sof.” he says quietly, eyes focused on the road, chasing out photos that have been lingering behind his eyelids for a month, about nightmares where the girl wasn’t that unknown face, but one he knows better than his own.

Sofie doesn’t say anything, but he can feel her gaze on the side of his face, and when he turns to look at her, she meets his eyes behind his sunglasses, her face bare and open, her eyes bright green and filled with a curious concern.

“Okay,” she says softly and turns her head to look out over the rushing city outside the tinted windows. 

The car fills with the low radio, and he can fell Sofie’s eyes moving between the window and his profile; Tom focuses on the road, trying to push the images out of his head and remind himself that she’s _here_ and _fine_ and nothing happened to her in the month she was gone.

It’s a steady chorus in his head, _she’s here, she’s fine, she’s back—_ until he hears the gentle shift of her cotton dress moving over the leather seat, Sofie turns until she’s leaning against the car door, her feet pushing onto his lap.

He glances down at small toes and then at her, lifting a brow. “That’s safe.”

Sofie doesn’t say anything, settling into her position and picking up her phone when it buzzes again in her lap.

He wraps his fingers around her ankle, thumb brushing the small, sharp bump of her ankle bone; the radio fills the silence and he feels his shoulders, the knots of his back ease in small degrees.

 

 

 

                “So ‘ow’d you g’pass the securdy?” Sofie asks around a mouthful of greasy, mouth-watering, absolutely wonderful hotdog.

She’s perched on one of the few free stools while Tom half leans against the high wall-length counter, a basket of fries between them, grease on their fingers and a growing pile of used napkins beside them.

Tom sinks his teeth around his own, raising a brow as he chews, swallowing enough to get  _cop,_  out of his mouth with a full cheek. He swallows, looks pointedly down at his waist, where his badge and holster rest and Sofie laughs, the back of her hand covering her mouth and her mouthful of hotdog.

“Abusing the system, Detective Graydon?” she teases before taking another bite.

“I also parked in a no parking zone.”

Sofie blinks, her eyes wide as she gasps, playing at shock.

“Terrible, I know, but,” he pauses, his eyes flick to the window, looking away and thinking. “What’s that line from that movie…”

Sofie raises her brows, unsure what one he means when Tom clears his throat, voice deep and serious. “ _I am the Law_.”

Sofie laughs as Tom’s lips twist up, eyes crinkling as he smirks. “Dredd.”

 _That’s the one,_ he laughs.

Sofie finishes off her hot dog first, wiping her fingers and licking the taste from her teeth.

“God that was good,” she sighs, reaching for a fry. “We went to a lot of café’s and like, bistro things. I think Grandma would  _die_  if she knew what I just ate.”

He shrugs, swallows the last bite of his own and can’t help but agree. “I highly, _highly_ doubt she’s ever even tried a hotdog, especially not one like this.”

Sofie smiles, licking her lips. “You mean fucking fantastic?”

He shoots her a look but doesn’t bother correcting the language, it’s nothing he doesn’t say, his own bad language bitten back whenever he’s at home, so he might as well let her swear now.

“Fucking fantastically bad for you, but worth it,” he agrees with a crooked smile.

“I could totally eat another one,” she laughs, popping another fry in her mouth.

“Want me to get you another one?” he asks, reaching for the take-out cup of soda between them and taking a long pull from the straw.

Sofie shakes her head, accepting the drink when he passes it to her, setting the straw in her mouth as she says: “No, I have to get back into shape for soccer, don’t want to go back to Briar Hill and not make the team.”

Tom looks at her, her words landing oddly inside of him.

Sofie looks _…_ maybe it’s the sundress, or that her hair is down, or that she might have a little bit of mascara on; he isn’t sure what it is, but she looks…different.

Though maybe it might be because he hasn’t seen her in a month and she’s fifteen and bound to look a little different from the girl she always is in his mind.

Tom can still follow the line of her collarbones, but they’re a little less sharp than they used to be, and maybe that’s part of what’s different, that she’s not really that little girl anymore.

She’s still tiny, though, and Tom bites back smile. He can’t help but think that she always will be that small thing he found on the stairs, even though her body is less scrawny and a little more filled out than he remembers.

He wonders when that happened, wonders if he missed it before or if it’s just because she’s been in a foreign country and not in line of sight for a month.

He pushes the thought from his head and focuses back on the conversation and her words about getting into shape.

“You don’t have to worry about your shape, Sof—”

She laughs, cutting him off. “No, I know, I just meant like fitness wise, I haven’t been able to run or workout in a month. It’s going to suck,” she wrinkles her nose. “Soccer drills are brutal.”

“You’ll pick it back up easy, the body remembers pretty quickly,” he replies, knowing from a few injuries in the line of duty that it’s tough to push through a tired body and back into a routine, but it does come back.

“Yeah, still gonna suck though.”

 They finish off the last few fries before Tom collects the small mountain of greasy napkins and wrappers while Sofie grabs the soda cup and brings the straw to the corner of her mouth, drinking absently while she hops off the stool and follows him out of the restaurant and into the bright, muggy New York day.

The traffic and bustle swamps his senses, the heat heavy, the sun burning over them and turning the world lethargic and weighted as the car unlocks with a beep.

“Plus,” Sofie chirps around the straw as she boosts herself into the vehicle as Tom climbs in on the other side. “The French love butter, I’m pretty sure my insides are like, ninety percent butter right now.”

He laughs as the car turns over, pulling away from the curb and merging back onto the road.

“You look great, Sofie,” he says, his eyes on the traffic, missing the flush rising on Sofie’s cheeks, too busy focusing on the road, on turning east and towards home. “Really.”

 

.

 

                “Looks like your mom’s home.” One of Tom’s finger rises off the wheel, pointing out Lise’s Fiat parked against the curb.

Sofie can’t decide if she’s happy or disappointed; she did miss her mother, a month away from both of them was hard. There were moments on her trip where Sofie wanted nothing more than to press herself into her mother’s arms and just… be held.

But, there’s still this low rolling sense of anger, a tinge of betrayal burning in her stomach like acid. Sofie didn’t want to go to Paris—

Not with her grandparents at any rate.

Lise had to know that. Sofie’s always been more of a homebody; she has her friends and her teammates, but she’s always preferred being with her parents

 _Except that isn’t quite true, is it?_  a little voice sing-songs in the back of her head.

_You like being with Tom._

Sofie pushes the thought away, even though she knows it’s true. That most days Sofie looks forward to settling on the couch beside him, or in his study, or…anywhere really, as long as he’s there.

Sofie chews her cheek, mind rolling with thoughts. With a slowly growing truth that—

She had hoped, nearly prayed really, that a month away from him would knock some sense into her mind, realign _Tom_ with _Dad_ and let her return to _normal._

But, it’s still there when she looks at him, still there when he touches her—

She isn’t quite sure what that means, but there’s a slow curl of a realisation that she might be… _utterly_ and _horrifically_   _fucked up._

Sofie couldn’t even speak on that first phone call home, his voice through the receiver was low and so fucking far away that her throat had closed up in seconds, her vision blurring, lip trembling as heat spilled over her eyelids, a wet trail that she couldn’t even be bothered to wipe away. Locked behind her hotel room door, all alone and drowning in an old, threadbare grey shirt,  _GRAYDON  NYPD_ emblazoned across the chest, Sofie felt nothing but _alone_ and more than a little heartsick.

He didn’t ask her if she was okay, didn’t ask her if she was having fun; Tom filled the silence with news from the precinct, small details about how his case was moving along…low words, broken only by the occasional pause in which Sofie could hear a deeper inhale, and the words following were tighter, rougher… she closed her eyes and imagined white smoke trailing out into the warm, thick New York air outside his office window as Tom leant against the sill, holding his phone to his ear.

_(“You really shouldn’t smoke, you know,” Sofie managed to croak out, her voice tight and more warble than solid words at all._

_A pause, breathing quiet on both ends, another deep inhale before:_

_“I’ll quit when you get back, how about that?”)_

 

Tom parallel parks with an ease that always drives Sofie’s mother a little bit insane, his arm stretching behind Sofie’s seat as he pulls in and the straightens the vehicle, his muscles flexing; Sofie feels her stomach clench and she forces herself to look away.

The engine stops, dies out in mechanical ticks as she unbuckles her seatbelt, pulling her feet from his lap, stuffing them back into her flats before hopping out of the vehicle to follow him up into the townhouse.

They grab her luggage, and just at they cross the wrought iron gate in front of their house, the sound of his cellphone rings out, clear and sharp in the quiet street.

Squinting a little in the late afternoon sunlight, Sofie turns, one foot on the stair, to look over her shoulder and watch as Tom pulls his cellphone from his pocket. His sunglasses covered eyes land on hers when he lifts the phone to his ear.

“Graydon,” he answers tersely, listening to the voice coming through the receiver. Sofie waits, the faint hollow sound of a man’s voice on the other end, his words muffled and tinny and far away.

“Yeah,” he shifts, his gaze still on Sofie. “I’ll meet you there, give me fifteen.”

Sofie can feel the disappointment settle low in her stomach, a quiet feeling that slumps her shoulders. “You’re leaving?”

“Sorry, Sof, I—”

“I just got home.” She knows she sounds petulant, but she can’t catch the tone, her disappointment sharp and deep inside of her. “I thought we could hang out.”

“I won’t be long,” he offers. “An hour, two. Tops.”

“But—” Sofie catches herself, bites her tongue. She knows his job, knows his hours. Knows she has no right to complain. “Fine.”

“We’ll watch a movie or something when I get back, alright?” he offers, stepping towards her to push her lightly up the stairs towards the front door. “I’ll pick up popcorn, some junk food, we’ll make a night of it.”

“Twizzlers,” Sofie grumbles. “And M&M’s.”

He smiles crookedly, nudging her up the stairs to the front door. “Deal.”

They head inside; Sofie can hear the sound of her mother’s voice from the kitchen, parts of a one-sided conversation, realising she must be on the phone.

 “I’ll take these up and then head out.” Tom reaches for her backpack and tugs it off her shoulder, doesn’t wait for an answer, heading up the stairs to her room, his steps heavy and quick, leaving Sofie standing in the front hall and feeling bratty and sullen, watching him go.

She waits for him to come back down, waits for him to press a chaste, to quick kiss to her cheek, his hand wide on her arm in a quick absent brush of an apology.

 _See you soon,_ he whispers into her ear.

The door clicks quietly behind him and Sofie sighs, crosses her arms and watches his black SUV pull off down the road like she can will it to turn around.

When it doesn’t, Sofie heads towards her mother’s voice, down the hall towards the kitchen where Lise is pacing along the line of the kitchen island, still dressed sharply from work, her phone to her ear and her voice bright.

“No, no,” she laughs. “I can see that, it’s definitely a— oh, Sofie!” her smile is wide and brilliantly white.

And, despite Sofie’s lingering irritation, despite her prolonged grudge at her mother for sending her to France, Sofie feels a warm rush of love and smiles back, moving in for a hug when her mother lifts her arm. “Nick, I’ll call you back, Sofie just walked in.”

Both of Lise’s arms wrap around her, her perfume filling her nose, that same familiar, comforting smell she hasn’t changed for as long as Sofie can remember.

“Hey, mum,” Sofie smiles into her shoulder, wrapping her in a returning hug.

“Oh, I missed you,” she squeezes tightly and Sofie laughs, breathless from the constriction. “I want to hear everything, lets make some tea and you can tell me all about it, okay?”

“I brought some things back, and I’ve got my camera,” Sofie offers, and then remembers Tom took everything up to her room. “I’ll go get my bag.”

Sofie untangles from her mother’s arms, turning to head to the stairs.

“You look so lovely in that dress,” Lise smiles, fondness clear and bright on her face.

Sofie can’t help but return it, even though she desperately wants to put on pyjamas and a hoodie, she keeps the dress on; Tom’s voice in her head following her up the stairs,  _you look great, Sof._

 

 

 

 

 

 

            “Is Dad not coming?” Sofie vaults the last three stairs and rounds the corner, sneakers squeaking on the cold hardwood.

Lise sends her a disapproving, sharp look from the hallway mirror. “He said he’d try to meet us there for lunch, but you know him.”

Sofie does, but she also knows that he makes it a personal objective to not let Sofie down.

“He’ll be there then,” Sofie shrugs and ignores the way her mother’s lips press together. In the week that she’s been back, Sofie can’t help but notice that neither one of them seems particularly inclined to spend any real time with the other. She’s thought about asking, but each time she finds the right words to say she isn’t sure how to give them voice.

How can she even broach that subject anyway?

_Are you two okay? Are you breaking up? What happened?_

She’s heard more than one muffled argument coming from upstairs or Tom’s office, low voices tinted with anger, with a hush of irritation. Sofie hasn’t managed to catch any words, just the pitch of it, just enough to know that it can’t be good.

But she still can’t find a way to ask either one of them if there is something going on.

“Can’t you at least put on one of those nice dresses from your grandmother? Those shorts are so old,” Lise looks over at Sofie’s fraying jean shorts, the plain t-shirt, the messy, knotted bun sitting lopsided on her head and the worn sneakers shoved onto her feet. “You look like a hoodlum.”

“ _Hoodlum,_ ” Sofie laughs, grins and shrugs, t-shirt slipping off her shoulder a little from the motion. “Nah, I’m good, and besides, I don’t want to take any attention off you, Mrs Graydon, you look very pretty today.”

_Because you are still Mrs Graydon, right?_

Sofie isn’t sure what to make of the unsettled feeling in her chest, the one that isn’t sure if it’s more concerned with the problems in her mother’s relationship or if it’s more that she might be a little bit reliev—

She shakes her head, chasing the thoughts away, unwilling to even give a moment to the the feeling that she might be, possibly, insanely, absolutely utterly  _fucked up—_

Because she—

She—

She’s  _fucked_  that’s all. She’s having a midlife, no—

A quarter-life crisis?

Something. Maybe she ate something. Maybe she has brain worms—

“Oh, smooth, smooth, flatter the old lady so she doesn’t stay mad, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Lise smiles, points a finger at her daughter in the mirror and then turns around, hair neater than before, lipstick and makeup checked. She runs her hands over her dress and then spreads her arms. “Sufficient?”

“You’ll do,” Sofie sighs dramatically, pushing her unwelcome thoughts away. Her mother rolls her eyes, drags her close and presses a kiss down to her forehead.

“You are incorrigible, I swear.”

 _I am something_ , Sofie thinks as they head out the door.

 

.

 

                The taxi drops them off on Madison Avenue, Lise pays as Sofie slides out of the slightly smoky smelling interior and waits for her mother to finish.

“We should get your uniform first,” Lise realigns the fall of her summer dress and pushes a pair of sunglasses on her face, her newly strawberry-blonde hair tucked into a neat bun at the back of her neck. “I’m pretty sure your old one is going to be too small.”

“Sure. You know there’s a new Lululemon store that opened up…” Sofie says casually, trialing off.

“Oh, Sof, you don’t need any more work out things, you should be focusing on your studies instead of sports.”

“Sports helps me with school, Mom,” Sofie groans, this is probably the hundredth time she’s had to say this exact same thing. “It clears my head and keeps me happy, I’m not quitting.”

Lise shakes her head, and Sofie knows the tirade is coming,  _we only want what’s best, you can’t play forever, studies are more important—_

Never mind that Sofie gets good grades, she might not be top of her classes, but she does well enough. Never mind that the  _we_  Lise uses is more an  _I._  Never mind that Sofie knows Tom doesn’t care what she chooses to do, as long as she’s happy.

“Think of how much better you could do if you weren’t distracted by sports.” The same arguments, one more time.

“Sports aren’t a distraction,” Sofie crosses her arms and follows her other down the busy shop-lined streets. “Dad thinks my grades are fine,”

“Your father thinks the sun shines out of your behind, you could commit murder and he would still think you’re perfect.”

Sofie grins, she can’t help it. “I’ll keep that in mind, just in case Aiden gets on my nerves this year.”

Lise laughs, “Yes, well, if Aiden tries anything again, I’ll be sure to provide the alibi.”

“That’s so sweet, family murder and bonding,” Sofie laughs as Lise pushes the door open and heads into the well-lit interior of Smitting’s Uniform Co. “You’ll bring the shovels?”

“Should make for a wonderful photo album, right?” Lise grins over her shoulder, but her smile turns polite as the employee at the counter greets them.

Sofie laughs, following her in, ready to deal with the acute secondhand embarrassment of her mother’s tenacious shopping habits.

 

 

 

                She’s lingering by the door of Max Mara while her mother chats with a sales representative and flits in and out of the change room when an arm wraps around her middle and tugs her back into something tall, broad and warm.

She doesn’t even blink, there’s something too familiar in the move, too familiar in the warmth, the smell, the weight of the body behind her and the arm around her stomach.

“Why’s your back to the door, Sof?” Tom looks down at her over her shoulder and Sofie grins, tilting her head back to look up at him, her hair rubbing his chest.

“We’re on _Madison Avenue_ ,” she replies like it’s obvious. “The most boring place on earth.”

“A strip of stupid-rich stores filled with stupid-rich people,” he raises his brows. “Not at all at risk of robbery, you’re totally right.”

Sofie rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. “You still own me that lesson in disarming an attacker, you know. How am I supposed to defend myself without it?”

“ _Shit_. That’s right, we should do that,” Tom curses, but his eyes move away from hers and over the store. “Where’s Lise?”

Sofie huffs humourlessly and flicks her hand towards the change rooms. “Buying a new wardrobe.”

“That bad?” he chuckles, his arm still warm around her middle. “What’s so exciting this time?”

“Who knows, I zoned out an hour ago,” Sofie grumbles, letting herself lean into him more and ignoring the way she’s so…so fucking aware of every inch of her body against his. “What’s in the bag?”

With a crooked smile he lifts the bag in his other hand up for Sofie to see. “Back to school present.”

Sofie takes it, peeks in and sees a pair of white and pink cleats sitting at the bottom of the bag, all bright and brand new.

She grins, turning in his arm to wrap her own around him pushing her face into his chest. “They’re perfect! Thank you!”

He chuckles, pulling her in for a tighter squeeze before releasing her.

“You think your mother is ready for lunch? I’m fucking starving,” he complains while looking over the store.

“I’m hungry too,” Sofie agrees, looking up at him. “You better go tell her though, she’s not too happy with me.”

“Ah,” he smirks. “What’d you do now?”

“ _I_ did nothing,” Sofie denies. “She’s still harping on me about sports.”

“Oh, that,” Tom nods, sighing, scratches at his jaw as he looks towards to change rooms. “She wanted me to talk to you about it.”

Sofie frowns, but before she can comment, he leans lower, presses a kiss to her forehead and says lowly with a crooked, growing smirk, voice low over her skin. “Obviously, I disagreed, Sof. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother with cleats.”

 He’s letting her go before she can answer, heading off down the length of the store before Sofie’s grin has even spread across her face.

She watches him lean down to press a kiss to Lise’s cheek as she emerges from the change room, greets the sales lady politely and then he glances back to Sofie while he converses with the other two women across the store, Sofie looks away, flushing at being caught staring.

Trying to distract herself, she pulls the cleats out of the bag, turning them around in her hand and looking them over, enjoying the plastic smell of brand new gear. She looks up just as they start to head back over to her.

“She ready?” Sofie asks Tom as he leans against the wall beside her, watching her mother head to the counter.

 “Mostly,” he says, smiling crookedly as he watches her stuff the shoes and then the bag they came in, into another bag to hide them from her mother.

“She says she wants to stop in one more store for you before we head out.”

“Me?” Sofie blurts, her voice pitching. “What store?”

“Didn’t say,” he holds out his hand. “Here, give me the bags, I’ll go put them in the car.”

“You mean  _wait_  in the car.” Sofie holds the bags behind her back. “Nuh-uh, if I’m getting dragged somewhere else, so are you.”

Tom smirks, looking down at her as he steps closer. “You think so, Sof?”

Sofie looks up at him, so much taller than her that she feels the need to step back, her bags held tightly in her grip, the wall close behind. “I know so,  _Dad_.”

He laughs, a sharp bark of laughter and then his arm snaps out, reaching around her in a quick move, but Sofie knows him and she dodges the grab, twisting sideways to avoid his reach.

“ _So close_ ,” she laughs as he aims for the bags again, grin sharp and pleased when she evades him by pivoting round a rack of shirts.

“Smooth moves, Graydon,” he prowls closer, eyes narrowed. “You got some skills.”

“An old man taught me,” Sofie teases, her smile sharp, eyes keen.

His mouth opens and snaps shut, eyes lighting up in humour and disbelief; he lunges forward, catches her by her waist and drags her close, turning her back to his chest and pinning her with an arm, heavy and tight around her.

“ _Old_. Who you calling old?” he laughs as his fingers skate over her side, up under her t-shirt to get at her skin. Sofie dissolves into laughter. “Huh, Sof? Who’s got skills now?”

Sofie can feel her legs giving out, her knees collapsing, but his arm holds her up, his fingers merciless as she turns red from hysterics.

“You two are honestly ridiculous,” Lise shakes her head, but her red lips are curling up in fondness. “You’re both twelve, I swear.”

“Aw, now that’s not fair,” Tom grins, his fingers stilling and leaving Sofie’s side, her giggles fading, still pressed tight against him. “Just a bit of fun, right, Sofie?”

Sofie nods, wiping her face, laughing in short bursts of breathlessness, unable to say anything at all.

“We’re just going a few shops down and then we can head out for lunch,” Lise heads towards the door, voice bright. “Come along, children.”

Sofie cranes her neck up at Tom, who leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forward and then lets her go.

On the way out the door, she swings the bag and smack him in the back of the thigh.

“ _Oh_ , just you _wait_ , Sofie Graydon, just you _wait_ ,” he says behind her as she turns, walking a few paces ahead of him her grin bright and sharp and teasing enough to make him laugh, his eyes locked on hers.

They head down the street, Sofie swinging the bag lightly, absently mindedly following her mother when Lise makes a sudden turn into a store. Sofie looks up at the sign—

_Victoria’s Secret_

Sofie halts, her shoe scuffing the cement. Beside her, Tom stops as well, face blank.

Tom glances down at Sofie, lets loose a loud bark of a laugh at her face and extends his hand. “Bags?”

Sofie grimaces, cheeks flushing and shoves the bag at him. “I hate you.”

Tom laughs again, bags in hand and slips his sunglasses on his face with a roguish smile. “Good luck.”

 

 

 

 

               

                The frigid, air-conditioned temperature of the gym assaults her skin, goosebumps spreading over her body in a shiver.

Tom signs them in, smiling and chatting with the girls at the front desk. Sofie lingers at his side, trying not to roll her eyes as one of them leans on the high counter, her breasts large and pushed up from the way she leans on her forearms; completely intentional, Sofie knows.

“Hey, how much did those cost you?” Sofie chirps lightly all faux innocence, she presses her hands over her own sports bra flattened and much, much smaller chest. “‘Cause I was thinking of getting mine—”

The girl glares at Sofie, straightening up off the desk as Tom claps a hand over her mouth, laughter barely bitten back as he drags Sofie into his side, palm heavy and warm over her lips.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, pushing his lips together to hold in his humour, clearing his throat before continuing. “Teenagers.”

“Its fine,” the girl forces a smile, but it’s so sharp Sofie can see it splintering. “Kids, right?”

Sophie licks his hand.

Tom pulls her along, his hand slipping to the back of her neck, smile crooked as he pushes her forward lightly. “Go drop your stuff in a locker, brat.”

Sofie spins on her heel, walks backwards a few steps, her grin impish. “I was just making conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods. “And I’m the president of the United States.”

Sofie laughs, pivots, sneakers squeaking on the floor and heads into the girls change room.

 

 

 

                Sofie’s back hits the mat again, breath forced out of her chest from the impact. “Ugh. This _sucks_.”

“You’re getting too close.” Tom offers his hand, his palm as slick as hers, sweat shining across forehead; can can feel a drip of her own sweat slide along her temple.

“You’re too fucking quick,” she whines and wipes at it with irritation. “I can’t get in and out fast enough to hit you.”

“Then fight dirtier,” he holds out a hand, their fingers sliding together as she gets pulled back to her feet. “Like I showed you with the rib jabs.”

“I could kick you in the balls—”

“Well, I’d rather you not,” he laughs, breathless. “But listen, Sof. You’re too concerned with hitting me. Don’t hit me to hurt me, take me off balance and then get away. Save for fighting another teenage girl or like, a  _hobbit,_  you’re always going to be at a disadvantage. You can’t aim to win. Aim to get away.”

“But I like _winning_ ,” she pushes her lip out, an exaggerated pout.

“And I like you _alive_ ,” he parries back, the look on his face deadly serious, the humour gone. “So, fight dirty, fight to run, fight to get free.”

Sofie nods, wiping the back of her hand over her forehead. “Yeah, okay, okay.”

“Alright, so try this,” he raises his hands and Sofie copies his stance. “Say I was coming at you straight on, I want you to wait for the last second and then drop your weight, when I come forward my gravity will be off, you use that, you take my momentum and throw my centre out, I’ll fall. No matter my size, if I lose my centre of gravity, I’ll fall.”

Sofie nods, licking her lips, breath slowing, heart rate evening out as she waits.

“Come on, then,” she nods.

Tom tilts forward, Sofie waits until she can feel the heat of his arms before she drops, sinking low and rising up again nearly immediately, her shoulder hits his ribs and she pushes up, uses the force behind his tilt and push forward with the strength in her legs to follow through the motion; he stumbles and she uses her arm and shoulder to turn his body and takes them both to the mat, turning as she goes to land on top of him and not get crushed beneath him.

Sofie crows, straddling his waist, pushing her weight down and pinning his arms over his head. “ _Ha_ —”

Tom surges up, rolls them again, pinning her, catching her hands and pinning them down. “The goal is take me down so you can run, Sofie. Not to _gloat_.”

Sofie grins up at him, not even caring about the obviously easy way he let her pin his hands. “I like gloating,” she laughs. “And I still flipped you.”

He shakes his head, lips pulling up into an amused crooked grin. “I noticed. Good job.”

Sofie smiles up at him, pleased with her minor victory; Tom smiles down at her, his skin shiny and warm against hers, both of them flushed and hot from exertion, their palms slick and slippery and pressed together, fingers curling, folding together.

Their eyes shift minutely, looking at the other as their breathing slows.

Their eyes meet and world around them—

Staggers, slows; a soft, blurred unreality like the slow-motion plummet of a sudden tripping fall. Like being off balance—

Like honey, sticky and sweet over the tongue.

The heat caught between her body and his grows at every point of contact, her heart pounding, his pulse thumping into her palms.

With Tom’s weight over her, Sofie feels suddenly aware of how her legs are spread, how he kneels between them, how hot his body is…

Sofie’s skin pricks, her stomach tenses, a heat spilling out of her and pooling low.

An ache burning to life between her—

There’s a knock on the door, a voice pushing through. “Aerobics class starts in ten.”

Tom blinks, swallows, clearing his throat as he sits back on his knees, his hands slipping out of hers.

“Yeah, we’re done— one second,” he calls, clearing his throat again and rocking back and up to his feet before offering a hand to help Sofie up, his face blank but for the slight redness of exertion.

 Sofie blinks, her fingers slipping back into his; her mind slow, body—

Body—

Body hot and sparking and flushed with—

_Oh, God._

She is  _fucked._


	5. Chapter 5

 

* * *

Chapter V

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

           Tom leans against the window ledge, August heat fading out at the edges, turning into the sharper edge of September. Smoke curls lazily out of his mouth, fading away in a hazy plume of acrid white. The red tip flares as he inhales, smoke held heavy in his lungs as he enjoys the burn of tobacco, the weight of it in his chest, the growing need to exhale and breathe.

He holds it in, eyes moving over the still street, the distant noise of the city outside of their quiet block of wealth and solitude; feels like an entirely different world than the one he belongs to outside of it. Entirely different than the one he grew up in.

His chest burns. He exhales, smoke billowing up into the sky in a rush; fills his lungs with new air and inhales that stale city smell faded only a little by the trees lining the street.

Behind his eyes, he sees Sofie looking up at him, the smile on her face fading, eyes shifting over his, so green and open and—

His heart trips in his chest, stomach clenching; something on her face he has no name for. One he doesn’t _want_ to give a name to.

He has no idea what to call it, what to think of it; Sofie looked up at him, pinned beneath his body and he had felt—

Felt—

 _Something_.

 

 

 

            Sofie turns her face into her pillow, breathing muffled and damp against cotton, sheets kicked off and skin sweaty even with the air conditioning blowing cold air and raising pebbles along her skin.

Her stomach knotted, body one bright nerve lit up from the inside.

Her fingers damp and slick, underwear caught on her ankle as her toes curl.

_A body hot and heavy and surrounding, lips brushing hers, his breath hot and urgent over her mouth, wide hands sliding down her arms, over her sides, gripping her hips, lower bodies moving, moving—_

Her teeth sink into her lip, Sofie whimpers, her thighs shaking, back arching—

Sofie gasps, face turning out of the suffocating press of cotton, mouth open and fresh air filling her lungs as her body unravels, burning up like a starburst, a name on her tongue that shouldn’t be there at all.

 

 

 

           

“Hey, Graydon!”

Sofie groans, her head dropping down; Theo rolls his eyes as Grace snickers. They stop, halted at the voice, bunched together as they make their way back to first period.

“Please tell me that’s not who I think it is,” she grouses, refusing to turn around.

Grace smiles, turning to glance over her shoulder. “Okay, that’s totally not who you think it is.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Theo laughs as Sofie glowers at her friends.

“I hate you both,” she grumbles, turning around as her name echoes through the school halls again.

“Graydon!”

Sofie glares; Theo a step behind and Grace at her side. “Marks,” she crosses her arms, voice dull and uninterested. Except this is the first time she’s seen him since they were eleven and she does not see what she was expecting to see.

“I heard you were coming back,” he smirks down at her. Aiden Marks has grown up and out, he’s taller, broader, filled out with muscles from baseball and soccer. “As short and minuscule as ever, though.”

He is most definitely not the boy she once punched for calling her a pretty princess.

“I can still out pitch you any day of the week,” Sofie stands straighter, glaring up at him.

“Hm,” he lifts his arm and flexes; for fifteen it’s a fair amount of wiry muscle, but Sofie knows Tom, and her dad has three times what this boy has. “I’m not too sure anymore, short stuff.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sofie frowns. “We’re not ten anymore.”

“Pretty sure you’re the same size, though,” he smirks and Sofie wants to smack it off his face. Was he always this annoying? She just remembers him as the boy who hated losing to a girl. The boy who would pull her hair or want to race her across the playground just to try and beat her at something.

Was he always this cocky?

 _Probably,_  she thinks. She just called it being snot-nosed or something back then.

“Well,” Theo claps his hands, tugging on Sofie’s backpack strap. “We should get to class, right?”

Sofie nods and when she turns to head towards her first class, Aiden calls after.

“I’ll see you on the pitch, right shortstop?”

Sofie flicks her middle finger over her shoulder and she hears his bark of laughter and then rolls her eyes. “You’d think after five years he’d have grown out of it.”

“Yeah, no,” Grace laughs. “That boy has it _bad_ for you.”

“He  _what_?” Sofie squeaks.

“Seriously?” Theo laughs, glancing at Grace with an incredulous look. “Oh, c’mon, Sof. He’s been metaphorically and  _literally_  pulling your pigtails for like a decade. Pretty sure he fell in love with you the moment you two met across the paint station in pre-school and you hit him for stealing your blue paint.”

“That’s…that’s...” Sofie splutters.

“Completely true,” they insist at the same time as Sofie's  _ridiculous_!

“Ohh, what are we gossiping about,” Sarah interrupts, coming up behind them, her group of friends close behind. “I want the gossip too. Oh Sofie! Welcome back, we missed you.”

“Just telling Sofie that Aiden has—” Grace starts, but Sofie glares furiously and her mouth snaps shut.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sarah nods, looking between them excitedly. “I can guess. Can I guess?”

“Please do,” Theo laughs as they turn into their English class and slip into their seats. Sofie is saved from any embarrassing guesses as Aiden and his friends spill in after them; typically rambunctious, save for the way his eyes land on Sofie before he slips into the seat behind her.

“Just like the old days, huh, shorty?”

“Not really,” Sofie says over her shoulder. “I think you got uglier.”

“Oh, Graydon, you’re breaking my heart.”

Sofie rolls her eyes, sitting straighter and trying to ignore him; next to her Grace and Sarah share a look and burst into laughter.

 

 

 

 

            “We’ll canvas in grids, each of you will be given a stack of photo cards with contacts on the back to pass out as you go,” Tom stands in front of the gathered police officers, most of them fresh faces, brought in last minute to help the search. “Be clear to the public that we don’t think he’s dangerous, but they aren’t to approach him or engage the suspect.”

“How do we know he’s even still in the area,” an officer pipes up from the back of the briefing room. “Fucker could be in Mexico if he were smart.”

“We don’t think he is, Harding has lived here his whole life, he’s got family in the area if he was going to leave, he—” Tom frowns watching as one by one nearly all the male eyes in the room glance to their left, their focus gone. “—would have left years ago.”

He follows their lines of sight, out through the large window that shows the main desks and detectives of the 19th precinct.

He catches a flash of blonde, then school skirt and—

Sofie, fresh from school, still in her Briar Hill uniform, knee high socks, and skirt, blazer unbuttoned and her face a little pink from the heat outside.

“Officers,” he snaps, tearing his own eyes away and glaring out over the room. “Eyes off my fucking kid.”

Every face that wasn’t looking glances to look out the glass; the ones that were caught looking, turn their eyes straightforward, faces blank and sitting straighter.

“Now,” he continues as Marcus moves towards the blinds and pulls the string until they slide closed. “Suspect is known to be a runner, so corner him or be prepared to chase.”

“Are we considering him armed?” another voice calls out.

“No,” Tom shakes his head, moving to the first desk and dropping a box of photo cards on it with a thump. “Harding isn’t known for weaponry violence, but he will put up a fight.”

Tom looks to Marcus and tilts his head to the door, Marcus nods nearly unnoticeably and moves to take his place at the front of the room.

“Each of you gets a box of a hundred cards, each box should be empty by the time your patrol ends—”

Tom slips out of the room, the door clicking shut quietly behind him as he searches the room for Sofie.

“Baylor, you seen Sofie?” Baylor lifts her hand, eyes never leaving the stack of files in front of her and points to the lieutenant's office.

Tom sighs, running a hand through his hair and making his way over. He knocks lightly with his knuckles and, not waiting for an answer, opens the door to lean inside.

“Tom, come in, Sofie was just telling me about Paris,” Lieutenant Payton, a man known for his stern, unflappable demeanor was sitting with his feet up in his office chair, a Starbucks cup in his hand and Sofie across from him with her own white cup in her hands and a grin on her mouth.

“Hey Dad,” she greets, her legs folded over the side of the chair. “I brought you a coffee too,” she points to the desk and Tom moves into the room, dropping into the free seat and looking at her with a raised brow.

Sofie smiles, unconcerned and unaware of the... distraction she caused.

Tom thinks he probably shouldn’t be so surprised Sofie is here, she used to come all the time, practically grew up around most of the detectives; but she hasn’t been here in years, not since Trafalgar. Not since… _maybe eleven_ , he thinks.

He isn’t so sure why he feels so caught off guard with her here.

He scratches his jaw, clears his throat and reaches for the coffee on the desk; settling back into his chair and turning slightly to look at Sofie, indolent and bouncing her leg over the armrest in the other chair.

“I was just thinking that Sofie hasn’t been here in years,” Payton says, his deep voice thoughtful, unknowingly echoing Tom’s thoughts. “Not since…what your eleventh or twelfth birthday?”

 _Oh, right_. She was here for her twelfth birthday, Tom remembers the little cake they got her and the absolutely terrible rendition of  _happy birthday_ that had flooded through the room.

“Yup,” Sofie nods, her foot bouncing. “You gave me an official NYPD cap and we had that badge shaped cake in the break room.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Peyton chuckles, nodding as he remembers. “Now tell me more about France.”

Tom zones in and out of the conversation, having already heard Sofie’s stories about Paris and the Royal Riviera overlooking the Mediterranean; about Versailles and the Louvre. The two chatter on and Tom drinks his coffee, eyes flicking between them, wondering why he feels so…annoyed by Sofie showing up the way she did.

He thinks about the obvious way the men had turned to look, the bright spot of  _schoolgirl_  catching their attention against the monotone colours of the walls and desks.

He looks over at her, her leg foot bouncing absently, the way the skirt shifts—

Sometimes he really hates his own gender. Sofie looks  _young_ , how can’t they see it like he can? She’s not some pin-up girl in a trashy magazine; they have no fucking business looking at her.

“I really wanted to go to Disneyland Paris, but I was outvoted,” Sofie adds, her voice breaking through his thoughts and bringing him back to reality.

“Terrible,” Tom deadpans.

“Horrible,” Peyton agrees.

Sofie nods sadly as if it really was some great tragedy.

“Such a rough life,” Tom drawls and Sofie looks over at him with a smile, cheek dimpling.

“Right?”

Peyton laughs and Tom can’t help but snort into his coffee and then drains the remainder.

“We should probably get going,” he pushes to his feet, looking down at Sofie. “I’m sure the Lieutenant wants to get home as well.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. Sofie, make sure you don’t disappear on us again, my office is always open.”

“Yes, sir,” Sofie laughs and hikes her bag over her shoulder, her drink finished and dropped into the garbage can as Peyton sits straighter, eyes moving to Tom.

“The task force primed and prepped?” he asks, bare of information. Tom nods, taking hold of Sofie’s backpack as she heads to the door, holding her in the office. Peyton’s lip twitches but he falls back into the regular stoicism.

“Yes, sir, photo cards and I.D’s went out, I’ll touch base with them in the morning, and they all have my number if they find anything.”

Peyton nods. “Alright then, have a good night, Tom, you too Sofie.”

Sofie waves a cheerful goodbye as they head out in the hall.

“Hold up a minute, Sof.” His hand on her bag stops her pace, dragging her back a little as she heads towards the hall towards the front desks and main lobby of the precinct.

“What—” she starts but he’s pushing her down the hall and into an empty briefing room.

“Stay here a second,” he orders and shuts her in before heading towards the locker rooms where they keep extra gear.

“Hey partner, what’re you doin’?” Marcus’s voice cuts through Tom’s thoughts as he rifles through the shelves to find a small or medium sized NYPD windbreaker.

“Trying to find a jacket to cover Sof,” he answers, feeling no reason to lie about it, Marcus has been around Sofie for years, he imagines he would feel pretty similar to Tom right about now. “Don’t need a legion of cops staring at her as we leave.”

“Ah the gauntlet of grunts,” he nods. “Not known for their subtlety.”

Tom snorts. “Might as well have glued their fucking eyes to her, huh?”

“Eh, you can’t blame them,” Marcus shrugs, leaning on the lockers opposite from him. Tom shoots him a look, anger a sudden burst of heat in his chest.

“Hey now,” Marcus raises his hands, palms to Tom. “I’m just saying, it’s the outfit, not the girl. You know men. It’s a pretty common uh, interest, the whole school girl thing. You know what guys are like.”

“It’s _Sofie_.” Tom snaps, irrationally annoyed by his own thoughts being spoken aloud and not something like,  _nah, they weren’t looking at her, you got it wrong._

Which is unreasonable, but exactly what he  _wants_  to hear.

Marcus shrugs. “It ain’t the girl, that’s what I’m saying. You could throw Detective Rinon in that outfit and guys would still look.”

Tom grits his jaw. Irritation still sharp and hot. “Yeah, maybe,” he forces out. Can’t quell the burning anger in his stomach at the thought of walking the gauntlet out of the precinct and knowing every set of male, and maybe some female eyes would be on Sof.“She’s fifteen, man. I can’t—”

Tom feels his stomach turn at the memory of that moment in the gym; at the knowledge that there was something there that shouldn’t be there at all. That for a moment he thinks he felt—

_God, the fuck is wrong with my head?_

“Hey, Tom, chill, you know she’s going to keep coming by. They’ll get used to her again. I bet most are already hiding in fear from you, did you see how white Evans got when you snapped at them, I ‘bout bust a gut holding my laughter in. Kid turned to Casper the friendly ghost in like one second flat. Swear he ‘bout died on the spot.”

Tom can’t stop the laugh, humour slowly easing the knot of his anger, the sweeping outrage at someone looking at Sofie and…and…thinking about her…like…

He shakes his head, doesn’t even want to think about it. Wants to grab his kid, throw a coat on her and head home so they can have dinner and relax a bit before bed. Maybe watch a movie or something.

His shoulders ease, he grabs a coat, not even caring it’s a large and not medium, doesn’t care it’ll hang off her like a tent; thinks it’ll be better that way anyway.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tom lifts the coat a little, balled in his hand as he makes his way to the door. “Still going to make her wear it though.”

 Marcus laughs, teeth white and shining. “Yeah, yeah, figured you would. See you in the a.m. partner.”

“See you in the a.m.,” Tom calls over his shoulder as he heads back the briefing room to collect Sofie.

 

“Why do I have to wear this?” Sofie frowns, pushing her arms through the sleeves and then throwing him a look as she lifts her hands and the sleeves hang, elephant trunk like over the tips of her fingers.

“Because I want you to,” he starts folding the sleeves, rolling them up until he can see her fingertips and then moving to the other arm before correcting himself. “Because I would like you to.”

Sofie makes a face, obviously not happy about it, but doesn’t argue.

“Alright, looks good,” Tom says cheerfully, looking over her before grabbing her backpack from the table, opening the door and holding it for her. Sofie shoots him another look, one that seems to question his sanity and then rolls her eyes and heads out into the hall. Tom follows, looking down her back at the tent like NYPD jacket draping to her knees and nodding to himself on a job well done.

They clear the gauntlet with very little distraction, Sofie waves to the officers at the front desk and Tom has to glare at one or two men who side-eye her with a second glance. It’s…rewarding to see them straighten, their faces going carefully blank, eyes averted.

The car beeps and Sofie hops up into the SUV as Tom drops her bag in the back seat. It isn’t until he’s climbing in the car and she starts shrugging the coat off does he remember Marcus’s words.

_(It’s the outfit, not the girl. You know men.)_

He tells himself this on repeat as the car starts, as he backs out of the spot and heads out of the lot. A repetitive mantra as he turns towards home.

It’s the outfit and not the girl. All men feel that shameful interest in these kinds of outfits. It’s not that it’s Sofie. It’s the skirt, the white socks, the patent shoes…

It’s not Sofie.

It’s not.

 

 

 

 

            It takes a month before Sofie’s appearances at the precinct become routine, before the looks she garners are only from the unknown officers and visitors who mill in and out of the precinct every day; only those who don’t already know that the girl who arrives most days around four-thirty is the daughter of Tom Graydon and absolutely, unequivocally off limits; even if she weren’t fifteen. The girl was  _off fucking limits._

Sofie, thankfully, seems entirely unaware of the whole thing, the jacket stays at his desk,  _just in case,_  but he takes Marcus’s advice and the slower, yet more lasting approach of letting Sofie fall back into place at the precinct like she did when she was younger.

For the most part, anyway. As a cop and then a detective, Tom has become exceedingly skilled at conveying non-verbal violence in nothing more than a look; something as threatening as  _I’ll rip your fucking cock off_  can be conveyed with a glare and a tight jaw. Or a cold, blank face of  _I’m watching you,_  to the rotation of men coming and going in the precinct.

The detective in him knows this anger is due to his own momentary lapse in  _what_  he saw versus  _who_  he saw, but the man in him, the one that raised Sofie, that voice is louder still, and it beats a steady chorus of denial and refuses to acknowledge it at all.

 

(Tom accepts his own hypocrisy in this, because he will never,  _never_  admit, that it takes him nearly the same amount of time to realign the Sofie in his head to the girl in front of him.)

 

 

 

 

 

T: _what time are you done?_

_S: 5-530_

_T: want me to wait?_

_S: you don’t have to_

_T: I’ll pick you up, have fun_

 

“Graydon, move it!”

Sofie shouts a quick  _coming,_  over her shoulder, sends back a quick smiley face, drops her phone back in her duffle and shoves it all back into her locker; jogging quickly to catch up with her teammates and her waiting coach before heading out onto the soccer field.

The boys’ soccer team is finishing off their own practice, coming in off the field sweaty and dishevelled, grass stained and panting.

“Hey, shortstop,” Aiden grins, his face sweaty. “Looking—”

“Marks!” Coach yells, her face stern. “Showers! No harassing my team.”

Aiden rolls his eyes, lifts his shirt to wipe his face, sending Sofie a smirk when her eyes flicker down at his stomach and chest. She knows he did it on purpose, knows he’s cocky and thinks she looked because he’s fit, and not just as a reaction to the movement. But she has no good way to say she’s seen Tom shirtless and knows what real muscles look like and his are nothing comparable.

Which is crazy, she shouldn’t be comparing the two at all.

“See something you like, Graydon?”

Sofie shoots him a look, her lip curling. “Not even a little, Marks.”

“We’ll see,” he smirks and heads off when her coach calls her again, her voice sharp.

Sofie trots to catch up to her team, apologising and falling into line as Coach details the drill sequences. Sofie can’t help but think that maybe her friends were right and Aiden did, in fact, have some sort of…feelings for her.

But she brushes it aside, Marks has always acted the same, there’s nothing new to their interactions, they’ve  _always_ pushed at each other, trying to make the other stumble or trip.

Sofie would bet money that’s all he’s doing now; trying to make her trip.

 

            Drills turn into a short practice game and when her coach finally calls an end to the practice Sofie is exhausted, her body sore and she feels like she’s dripping with sweat. It’s then, of course, she notices Tom sitting in the stands, his focus on a file folder in his lap.

He looks up as she approaches, lips quirking up into a smile, the folder snapping shut.

“Hey, Sof, all done?”

Sofie smiles back, forcing herself to ignore the little flutter her stomach did at the sight of him and climbs up the railing to lean closer.

“Yeah, I just have to grab my stuff, what’s that?” She points to the takeaway cups sitting in a tray beside him and Tom reaches for them and shifts to stand.

“Smoothies, all healthy and shit, thought I’d support you in your healthy quest instead of bringing hot dogs.”

“Ugh, a hot dog would be amazing,” Sofie groans, then reaches out for one of the cups and takes a long sip out of the straw. “S’good though, are they both the same?”

He turns the tray and lets her try the other one, “I just asked for something healthy that didn’t taste like grass. I’ll drink whatever one you don’t want.”

Sofie tries the other, both of them very green, but one of them slightly more banana in the flavour. “I’ll take this one, I think there's banana in it.”

She hands it back and steps off the railing with a little jump, “I’ll go grab my stuff, be right back.”

 

            The change room is cold and loud with girls’ laughter and voices bouncing off white tiles. Sofie doesn’t bother showering, just heads to her locker to grab her bags.

“Hey, Sofie!” a teammate a few lockers down, already wrapped in a towel with her toiletries hanging from a finger and dangling by her side, calls out over the other voices.

Sofie thinks she knows what’s coming before Kate even opens her mouth.

“Who’s the guy?”

“My dad,” Sofie responds wearily. “And he’s married.”

“He’s hot as fuck.”

Some of the girls laugh around them, listening in, Sofie’s pretty sure there are a few chimed in agreements as Kate continues.

“Is he a cop?”

“Detective.”

Another teammate joins in, “I’d let him arrest me any day.”

 _Oh no,_ Sofie thinks.  Are they going to be even  _worse_ than Trafalgar?

Sofie doesn't know most of the team, only a few girls, most of them older, most in their final year, Sofie and two other girls the youngest, being fifteen instead of seventeen.

“He’s so old,” Madison says to her right. Sofie shoots her a thankful look, even though she feels the need to defend him by saying he is not  _that_  old. “Zayn Malik is way hotter.”

There are a few laughs, some agreements and Kate turns her lips up into a slightly disgusted look. “No way, Maddie, he’s way too baby-faced.”

“He’s like twenty-four or something,” someone pipes up. “He’s not young.”

"Oh, what about Harry Styles?"

Kate shakes her head, a smile pulling wide. “Nah, I’ll take Daddy Graydon any day,” she says lasciviously. “More experience, you know he’d be good.”

“Oh my god,  _shut up_ ,” Sofie flushes, shrugging her bag higher and throwing an appalled look at Kate and her friend who’s nodding and agreeing wholeheartedly. “That’s so gross, please never call him that again.”

Kate laughs, “Can’t help it, newbie, he’s like, totally my type. How old is he?”

Sofie shakes her head, refusing to answer and heading towards the doors when Kate’s voice echoes loudly through the tiled room again.

“Oh, Daddy!”

 _Oh, Jesus,_ Sofie flushes, groaning as she heads out of the locker room, _maybe I can get him to wait in the car._

 

 

 

 

 

            A few nights later there’s a soft knock on her door and Sofie looks up from where she's stretched out on her stomach on her bed, her school work in front of her.

It’s late, Sofie’s already changed into her pyjamas, a plain overlarge t-shirt and some cotton shorts, socks pulled on to ward off the chill of the cold floors.

Tom leans in, tie already off and collar undone. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Sorry about this afternoon.”

Sofie shrugs, “Don’t worry about it, Theo’s mum drove me home. Long day?”

Tom nods pushing up off the frame and moving into the room; Sofie shifts over on the bed, offering him room; he sits beside her, leaning back against the headboard and stretching out with a sigh.

Sofie sits up, turning to face him. “Want to watch a movie?”

“Aren’t you doing homework?” he frowns, looking at her papers and laptop.

“Nah, I’m pretty much done,” Sofie grabs her laptop, shifting back and sinking into his side. “Some mindless violence before bed always helps me sleep.”

Tom huffs a weak laugh but sinks a little lower, relaxing against the pillows. Sofie folds herself against him, the laptop on a pillow by his thigh, just below Sofie’s feet, her head on his shoulder, knees tucked up against his ribs.

Tom’s arm curves behind her, around her back, hand resting on her thigh.

It takes Sofie a long time to focus on the movie instead of how large his hands look compared to her thigh, how warm it feels…the feel of it spreads over her, slow and prickly, a heat growing in her stomach and pooling between her hips.

She bites her lip, trying not to think about how often it is now, that when she touches herself, she thinks of that same hand, the chest beneath her ear; a slow, shameful fantasy that fills her up with a sick want and leaves her too hot and achy and—

Sofie presses her thighs together, trying to quell that same ache that builds now, that makes her sink her teeth into her lip, to blink and try to focus on the movie. To not think about him rolling over her and spreading his hands along her thighs, fitting himself between them, leaning down and—

Sofie shifts; ignores her body and her mind and pushes all of it away; feels  _wrong_  and vile and ashamed of her own thoughts. What little comfort she can find in the fact he isn’t actually her father is paltry and weak at best. He  _raised_  her, he’s been in her life for as long as she can remember, she shouldn’t be thinking these things at all.

Sofie tells herself to  _stop_ , to  _just_   _fucking stop thinking about him._ She turns her face into his chest, closing her eyes and breathing out.

“Alrigh’?” Tom’s hand rubs lightly, a comfort, voice more gravel and rumble than words at all. Sofie nods even though the sound rolls through her like a flame.

He shifts, slow and lethargic from fatigue, words rough and half mumbled. “Should go t'bed.”

Sofie nods again, but neither one moves, the movie flickers a blue light over them and beneath her ear, she can hear his breathing getting deeper, more even and slow.

In the quiet, Sofie reaches out and shuts the lid of the laptop, the room descends into darkness and she pushes the laptop down the bed with her foot before curling back up against his side.

She listens to his heartbeat for a long time, before her own eyes fall closed, her mind quiets and sleep swallows as surrounding as the quiet darkness of her room.

 

 

 

 

           The key slips into the lock quietly, carefully dulled as he turns the handle and steps into the foyer. The house is cast in shadows, lit up only by the low white light above the stove, the dull yellowed light of street lamps spilling through the windows.

It’s late, Harding caught after two months of searching, a ridiculous amount of time for one trifling annoyance of a criminal; three months of a headache that feels like it’s finally clearing up.

Tom slips off his shoes, his jacket, socked feet quiet over the perpetually chilly hardwood. At the top of the first-floor, he can see a strip of light sneaking out from beneath Sofie’s door.

Frowning, he moves closer, ears strained to hear anything, his fingers touching the handle. There’s no sound, nothing he can hear through wood, anyway. He debates only for a moment more before turning the handle and leaning into her room.

“Sof?” he whispers, voice quiet but concerned.

Sofie’s curled up around a pillow, a pained look on her face; her laptop open and sending that dull blue light over the room, the same colour that snuck out beneath the door.

“Sofie?” he whispers again, frown sharpening, worry descending; her face and body tight and obviously distressed. He’s at her side in seconds, sitting down and facing her, reaching out to lay a hand over her forehead, sliding it to her cheek to get a better look at her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Being a girl,” she mumbles, her eyes closing.

He’s a cop, the places a statement like this can take him are the things his nightmares are made of.

“What happened?” his voice is strained, his chest tight, his mind spins a thousand terrors that leave him cold. “Sofie, tell me—”

“No, no,” Sofie shakes her head, her eyes opening at his tone. “It’s nothing like that. Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?”

“ _Literally_  being a girl,” she grumbles, body curling tighter. “Like you know, physically.”

He blinks, mind repeating her words.  _Physically a girl._

Oh,  _oh._

The relief is sharp and flooding, his shoulders easing. “Do you need anything?”

Sofie just looks at him, doubtful. “Less girl parts?”

He snorts, lips twitching. “Yeah, can’t help you there,” he pushes off the bed, heading towards the door. “Hang on a sec.”

 

Sofie watches his back as he slips out of her room, turning her eyes back to her laptop, on the screen Captain America is waking up in a hospital bed. Sofie watches blankly, the movie nearly silent, only on for a distraction from the pain tearing through her lower body, radiating out from between her hips. She sighs, cheek mashed against the pillow, curling a little tighter still, like is she can shrink small enough the pain will shrink as well.

It’s only a few minutes more, Captain America is being told he’s been frozen for seventy years when Tom comes back, a mug in his hand, something floppy wrapped in a towel in his other hand.

He sets the mug on the side table and instantly Sofie can smell the warm sugar of hot chocolate, see marshmallows melting, sticky and white over the top in a mound of sugar.

“Here,” he extends the lumpy wrapped bundle in his other hand, and Sofie reaches out to it, not understanding what it is until her fingers touch hot cotton and she remembers that they own a hot water bottle.

Sofie groans, for the anticipation of relief and for her own stupidity for not thinking about it in the first place. “Oh my god, I love you.”

“Love you too,” he replies easily, a soft smile on his lips. “When’s the last time you took anything?”

“Uh, like three hours or something,” she shrugs, sitting straighter and pushing the hot bundle against her lower stomach, eyes closing as the warmth spreads through her. “God, that’s good.”

He laughs quietly, waits for her to settle and then sets a little white pill beside the mug. “If you need it later.”

“Thanks,” Sofie sighs, looking up at him as he turns to go. “Want to watch a movie with me?”

“It’s pretty late,” Sofie looks at the corner of her screen, the credits of Captain America rolling. “You’ve got school—”

“It’s Friday,” Sofie interrupts, her lips quirking.

His eyebrows flick up like he’s flicking through days, and then he smiles and shrugs.  “Alright, one movie, budge up.”

Sofie shifts back further into her bed as he settles against the headboard and lifts his arm, knowing Sofie’s going to sink into his side, her insides tearing out of her or not.

She sighs, curling up, her knees tucked up by his ribs, head on his shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist and holding the bottle against her stomach. Tom’s arm curves over her as well, warm and heavy; another sort of comfort all together.

He reaches for her laptop, setting it on his thigh and tapping the arrow keys to browse titles. Sofie watches him flick, uncaring about what he picks, too comfortable to mind, too achy to care.

She’s watching his hand, the long finger tapping down on the key, the width of his palm—

She blinks, shoving the thought away, reminding herself that she isn’t going to keep doing this. That she has to stop thinking these things.

She looks back at the screen, and then there’s a low chuckle beneath her chest as Sofie sees what he’s picked.

“Really?” she laughs and it turns into a groan of disbelief. “Jaws?”

“C’mon,” he grins at her. “It’s a little clever.”

“It’s so not clever,” but she can’t hold in her own smile as he laughs.

Sofie shakes her head, but can’t bite back her laugh either. “Shut up and pass me my hot chocolate,” she says instead, reaching out and over him, flexing her fingers in a grabby motion.

“Sharks for shark week,” he laughs, chest rumbling as he enjoys the corny humour of the moment, Sofie rolls her eyes, but they crinkle up with mirth, impossible not to, not with how humorous he finds it. “It’s totally clever.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            It’s easy enough to fall into routine, with soccer and school and Tom’s busy caseload the three of them exist in rotational orbits; Lise, with the steadiest hours, takes Sofie to Theo’s before she heads off to the University. Sofie, with practise and games and study groups makes time whenever she can, waiting for Tom and his never consistent, always uncertain hours.

In the months since her loss of sanity, since sinking her fingers between her legs and finding release in the fantasies of Tom..his mouth, his hands, his voice...

Sofie has refused to touch herself again. Crossed legs, clenched thighs, kept fingers firmly from cotton, from the ache beneath her hips, that warm want that builds more often than not around him.

It sits in her mind constantly, how fucked up it all is, how unbelievable and  _wrong_  she knows she is to think it, to want it, to feel anything like it at all.

She forces herself to remember the very real fact that Tom is married to her  _mother._  That Tom raised her; that Tom is, for all intents and purposes, her  _dad_ —

 She should not be, under any circumstances, thinking about him in any way that is not paternal or platonic or  _normal._

She won’t.

She’s been doing pretty great at keeping her thoughts proper.

Had been.

Sofie feels her cheeks heat as Tom pauses, muscles shifting and bulging as he rolls his shoulders, sweat slick and—

_Oh, Jesus Christ on a cracker._

Sofie turns her eyes to the ceiling. Nearly wishing for divine intervention.

She grips the weights in her hands tighter, her knee sinking to the floor, lifting back up and switching legs; lunging in place. She watches Tom out of the corner of her eye, reflected in the mirror ahead, picking the barbell back up, adjusting his grip and hefting the weight up.

She thinks, absently, as her body warms, that too familiar flush of attraction building in her body, that she should be avoiding him, should be going out with her friends or boys her own age and trying to find someone else to…to want the way she knows she wants him…to find someone else—

But she knows, simply, easily, with no thought at all, that it wouldn’t work.

Tom is… _Tom_  and  _Dad_ and kind of her best friend, and more than that, Tom is…

Tom catches her eyes in the mirror, his face sweaty, eyes bright as he smiles at her in the reflection.

Her heart trips, a heartbeat of an ache and Sofie knows, as she forces herself to smile back, that no one else can fill the place he fills inside of her.

Not even a little.

 

 

 

 

            “Why do I have to go to this again?” Sofie grouses while her mother works her hair into something wavy and far too much effort for Sofie to do on her own. “I’ve never had to go to one of the Christmas parties before.”

“Because it would be nice of you, after all the money your grandparents have spent on you this year,” Lise says firmly, meeting Sofie’s eyes in the mirror. “Your grandfather would like his whole family there this year.”

“I do appreciate them,” Sofie says indignantly. “But he knows I’m not…fancy or whatever, I’ll probably say something stupid or trip, it’s all business partners and their families. I don’t know them.”

“Fancy or whatever,” Elise drawls. “Well, you certainly aren’t that.”

Sofie frowns, slumps on the stool. “Rude.”

“It’s just one night, Sofie, you can reign in your laconic sarcasm and hooligan ways for one night, can’t you?”

Sofie rolls her eyes, “I’d probably be the most entertaining one there.”

Elise just sighs and agrees absently, turning Sofie to the mirror and smiling lightly.

There’s a noise downstairs and they both look towards the bathroom door. “That’s probably your dad, go tell him we need to leave in thirty.”

Sofie slips off the stool and scratches absently at the back of her neck, rubbing her glossed lips together because they feel strange with the sticky colour on them.

She descends the stairs with a tight grip on the railing, unsteady in heels, unsteady in the bodice of her dress before it flares out into a short skirt of dark red that falls mid-thigh, puffed up by some black tulle. It’s a heavy, thicker fabric for winter, even though she doesn’t see the point of it, as it’s strapless and leaves her entire arms and shoulders bare.

It’s all rather...cute. Though it’s still leagues above the last dress she wore for that cotillion party, it’s still uncomfortable. But Sofie can reason that she looks okay in, she supposes, it fits her well enough and she managed to convince her mother to let her wear black stockings underneath to help ward off the cold.

Lise’s dress rests just above her knees, a tight red with a low back that shows every curve her mother is blessed to have. Sofie looks down at her own humble figure in the mirror and doesn’t quite understand what hshappento her.

Although, she has put on a bit of weight since school started, with soccer and training, her body is a little thicker than it was before, a bit softer edged than she’s ever been. She even had to throw out some of her underthings that were a little too tight.

But Sofie still doesn’t see whatever it was that her mother saw, or thinks she saw. Sofie’s still too small, easily the smallest girl in her classes, definitely the smallest one on the team. She’s okay with it, being small makes her work harder, push herself longer, makes her one the best on the team, makes her capable of kicking Aiden’s ass at any games the teams play against each other in practices.

 _Ugh, Aiden_. She really hopes he won’t be there tonight. She knows his parents work for some part of her grandfather’s company. She is not looking forward to his reaction to seeing her in something so girly, he’ll probably bust a rib teasing and laughing at her for trying to something she is decidedly  _not_.

 

         There’s a click of heels outside of the door and Tom braces for Lise, expecting her to be annoyed that he’s home later than he said he would be, that they’re supposed to leave in thirty and he hasn’t even showered.

Except it’s not Elise, it’s Sofie, who looks…

“Hey,” she smiles weakly, flopping down on the couch like she’s exhausted.

“Cute dress,” he forces out, ignoring his previous train of thought as Sofie fiddles with tulle under layer absently. “Everything okay?”

Sofie shrugs, her head dropping onto the back of the couch as she looks at him. “I’m not allowed to wear jeans, can you believe it?”

He laughs, “Really? I always thought jeans were perfectly acceptable black tie attire.”

“See?” she smiles lightly, her lips quirking in humour. “That’s what I thought too.”

“Your mum still getting ready?”

Sofie nods, picking at the dark pantyhose she has on. “For like, four hours.”

“What’s wrong, Sof?” he knows something isn’t quite right with her, her eyes aren’t as bright as they should be, her shoulders a little slumped.

“It’s going to be terrible,” she grouses. “I’m not fancy or proper, I’m probably going to say something stupid, or insult someone, or embarrass Grandma and Grandpa after they took me to Paris or…like trip and fall on my face because high heels  _suck._ ”

He tries to hold in the laugh, here he was thinking it was something serious and it’s all over a worry about a few hours tonight.

“I see you laughing, jerk,” Sofie glares, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“Sorry,” he schools his face, then moves towards her and holds out his hand. “Here, stand up.”

“What, why?” but Sofie stands without question, heels clicking as she steps closer, legs a bit unsteady and twice as long as he’s ever seen them.

When did that happen?

He pulls her closer, one hand at the small of her back; in her heels Sofie nearly reaches his chin, it’s an odd feeling having her so tall.

“Lise once told me that Gloria made her learn to dance in heels because it made walking in them as easy as breathing. So, if you can dance in them you’ll do fine,” he walks backwards and pulls Sofie along into a wider part of the study. “Just like we did at the park a few years ago.”

“I had smaller shoes then,” she complains, looking down at the black heels.

“Then why are you wearing them?” he teases, lifting a brow.

Sofie rolls her eyes like it's obvious, and he supposes it is. Lise is nothing if not tenacious and exacting; it was one of the qualities he enjoyed most about her when they first started becoming something other than oddly connected friends. Lise was,  _is_ , a woman not afraid to be herself, who knew what she liked and she almost always got it; even if that meant pissing off fifteen other people in the process. Something he often did as well, though he loses frequently to her because it makes his life easier.

It’s surprising to think back, to rationalise where they are now to where they were then:

Elise putting herself back together, their friendship shifting like sand daily. Sofie between them and causing their worlds to collide so easily.

It was an accident at first, stress relief and friends with benefits after that, and then… she told him to  _stay_  and he realised he hadn’t been home in weeks, that most mornings he made Sofie breakfast and took her to school, that Elise cleared drawers for him and he…well. Tom  _fit_  into their lives as easy as anything.

Marriage seemed logical, marriage made sense when you were raising a kid together. He isn’t sure if they ever loved each other, not really, not in the way they should have; but with Sofie drawing them in and together it had all made sense. Sofie at the centre of all of it, the little sun in which they orbited.

Sofie is five foot nothing in bare feet; a tiny little slip of a girl. Has always been a rather small thing, the smallest thing he’s ever seen, anyway.

And now, here they are nearly twelve years later and she calls him  _dad,_ and he loves her as easily and readily as he breathes. Never thought it possible, never thought he would be a husband let alone a father and yet…

Sofie looks up at him now, fifteen, still too small by half, too pretty for her own good, and she means so much to him that it makes his heart ache a little.

His arm tightens unconsciously around her waist, she stumbles a little into him and flushes; he finds it odd how much he wants to press his lips to her cheek and feel the warmth tinting them pink.

“It’s weird being this tall,” she mutters.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he smirks, recoiling from his own thoughts. “I’m used to you being a good foot lower.”

She makes an exaggeratedly offended face and laughs. “Oh, I am not  _that_ short.”

He huffs a laugh and spins her out, she manages it, little ungraceful on the way she comes back into his arms, but she stays on her feet.

“See, you’ll be fine,” his voice low, his chest oddly tight.

Sofie looks up at him, cheeks still pink, her hand on his chest, the other in his as they move in slow patterns of movement to no music at all.

“Do you really think I look okay?” she asks nervously.

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he replies honestly. And she is, Sofie has grown into a young woman right before his eyes and it is staggering to realise how long it’s been since the first time he saw her on those stairs and just couldn’t make himself walk away.

Staggering to realise that the little girl he raised is now a young woman who looks…

“Really?”

“Have I ever lied to you?” he replies, and they stop, he leans down and gives in to the urge to press his lips to her cheek, and says warmly, a rush of warm air over her skin, “I’ll have to beat off the boys soon, won’t I?”

Sofie laughs, her face turning into his chest and he holds her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist as hers rise to circle his shoulders.

He lifts her easily, straightening up and letting her hang off him.

“Boyfriends,” he groans. “That’s a terrifying thought.”

Sofie laughs again, and shakes her head, leaning back and grinning. “Don’t worry, I don’t even like any of the boys at school.”

And is it odd how relieved he is to hear that? He looks at her and thinks  _how_  because if he was a classmate, or…

_Fuck, what was that thought?_

He’s saved from analysing it as Lise’s voice cuts through the house and draws his attention. He sets Sofie down, waiting for her to find her footing before stepping back.

“I need to finish getting dressed, your mother will kill me if we’re late,” he heads for the door. “Maybe  _I’ll_  wear jeans.”

Sofie laughs, dropping back onto the couch to wait.

 

 

 

            It’s pompous, as high society often is; Sofie lingers in the corner after making a few rounds with both Tom and Lise. She leans against the wall, a champagne flute in her hand, half listening as a small group of teenagers, all sons, daughter or grandkids of someone in the room, most of them near her age and all of them talking about vacations or parents or school or ‘ _well_   _my father gave me…’_

It’s an unsurprisingly annoying, unsurprisingly common conversation and Sofie watches her parents mingle absently, half an ear on the talking around her, paying enough attention to say  _mhmm_ , or  _no_ , or  _yes_ , or  _really_ , whenever the lull around her sounds appropriate.

Across the hall, Tom looks over and meets her eyes and Sofie sends him an exaggerated eye roll and watches his lips quirk before he schools them and resumes his conversation.

 

          The hours tick on, low classical music playing softly, more drinks being passed around, the only thing easing her spine and her muscles; her feet sore from the arch of her feet in new heels.

 Lise introduces the son of some politician Sofie can’t remember for the life of her, and the boy takes her for a slow wind around the dance floor, Sofie tries to refuse but her mother all but pushes them together.

 

 

           He watches the boy's hands settle low on Sofie’s waist, thinks about interfering, about calling her to his side and sending the boy a clear message that Sofie, should be left alone. But, that’s all a little heavy handed…and unstable, he thinks, tripping headfirst into insane.

So he watches her instead, whenever he can, eyes finding her constantly, watching her force a laugh or a smile or offer a polite refusal. It eases him somewhat, knowing that he has her real smiles and she hasn’t given an honest one since they’ve arrived.

Has no idea why it matters, only that it  _does._

He's also quietly impressed that she hasn’t offended anyone, or stomped on someone’s foot… she’s always been a bit abrupt or sarcastic when things annoy her.

Although now he finds he wishes she would be a bit more rude; another boy leads her out onto the dance floor and he finds his patience waning. Elise is off mingling as she is so adept at, sometimes dragging him along, her hand tucked around his arm, the face of a proper couple, something they haven’t been in…in a long while now.

He isn’t sure what’s going on between them, only that it’s changing again, that they fight more often than they fuck, that when they fuck it's an outlet, a brief physical release that feels less and less like relief as the months pass. He realises he can’t even remember the last time they actually had sex…a month? Maybe more.

He thinks about the last time they actively sought the other out as lovers…realises that it’s been  _years_ …a brief time when Sofie first started Trafalgar, like they were both curious if they could find something else in their relationship.

But that faded just as quietly as their companionship has. He knows Lise isn’t unhappy, knows  _he_  isn’t unhappy either, they just are…not  _together_. Not like they once were.

He watches Sofie, meets her eyes again across the ballroom, her tongue darting to poke out at him quickly before she smiles politely at the boy dancing with her.

He bites back the desire to go over there and kill the rest of the evening with her instead of just watching her.

He knows it’s stupid, but he’d really just like to head home and watch a movie with Sofie. Maybe they could start the Godfather or Scarface, they’ve been talking about watching all the old classics; some Tom hasn’t even seen, all the ones everyone always talks about.

He decides he doesn’t care how stupid it is to prefer spending time with his kid rather than with other people; it was a long day, he’s tired and he’d like to go home and relax.

With Sofie, on the couch, in cotton and not in a suit.

He gets drawn into another conversation, and when it ends he swallows a large mouthful of champagne, knocking the rest of the flute back; turns his eyes to the other side of the room; searching for that bright flash of blonde, for the dark red of her dress. When he finds her, tucked in a corner, it’s to the sight of her hand braced against a boy’s chest as he leans down, his hand low on her back, spread wide and sinking lower still.

 

       Sofie leans back, tilting away from Aiden, whose hand is  _definitely_ too low and whose breath smells like alcohol.

“ _Let go_ ,” Sofie hisses, pushing at his chest with her hand.

“C’mon, Graydon, we both know how it is,” he smirks. “There’s a bathroom down the hall, we could have some fun.”

Aiden leans closer, his mouth moving towards hers and Sofie thinks only,  _not a fucking chance,_  and pushes the tips of two fingers in the soft spot between two ribs, her foot coming down, heel sharp and pointed on his foot.

Aiden jerks back, a noise tearing out of him, sharp and pained. Sofie glares, cheeks red and angry, ready to spit at him.

But, as her mouth opens, she catches a flash of dark hair from the corner of her eye and finds Tom’s moving towards her, his mouth tight, eyes sharp and steel-cold as he closes the distance.

“Sofie?” his voice is deep and low, jaw clenching as he reaches her, his hand closing around her arm. “Everything okay?”

“Its fine, I got it,” she licks her lips, swallowing her anger, her nerves that race along her pulse; turning to face him, curling her fingers into his suit. “Can we go?”

 

          Tom nods, looking at the boy, whose hand is pressed against his side, looking at Sofie and then at Tom before he turns and walks away without a word, two spots of colour on his cheeks.

Tom looks back at Sofie, the room quiets and slows around them; he doesn’t need to ask, can see it on her face, the stiff line of her back and shoulders, the set of her jaw. Knows her well enough to put the pieces together, to see the truth as easily as he sees her.

“Who—” he cuts off, jaw ticking. “I’ll go tell your mother we’re leaving.”

 

          Sofie nods, one hand knotted into the hem of her dress, knuckles white, her heart beating, thumping in her chest. She pushes a long, slow breath out from between her lips, flexing her fingers, straightening them out and trying to release the nervous anger that flooded her hot and left her cold the knowledge of what Aiden wanted. What he had been implying in the words  _have some fun._

In the moment all she thinks is that her friends weren’t teasing her at all. That Aiden really has been figuratively and literally pulling her pigtails in that age-old,  _boys will be boys_  adage; Sofie flexes her fingers, re-balling her fists, would like nothing more to shove that saying right back in Aiden’s face,  _boys will be boys, my fucking ass._

 

 

 

         Tom’s hands are tight on the wheel, two handed and white-knuckled in a way he never drives. Sofie watches the snow drift down, fat flurries turning gold beneath the passing streetlamps, the world quiet beneath the cold of mid-December. 

Sophie tucks her hands between her stocking-covered thighs, mind blank as she watches the snow burdened streets pass by.

The silence is filled only the crunch of snow beneath tires, the slow pass of the windshield wipers moving over the glass in long drags.

 

            The front door opens with a burst of warm air.

Sofie’s teeth chatter as she enters, nose red and sniffling. Tom follows her in, a hand light at her back, her footing unstable in high heels and the thicker snow.

In the foyer, he flicks the light on, a small chandelier that throws a white light over the hall. Sofie’s fingers slip on her buttons, her winter peacoat more fashionable than warm. Tom's fingers replace hers, eyes moving from his own fingers to the fan of her lashes over her cheek, a melting snowflake stuck and fading away as he watches it.

Sofie blinks, her hands falling to her sides, eyes flicking up, wide and open and always staggeringly green.

He feels his heart thump harder against his chest, a missed beat, an uptick in rhythm; Sofie blinks and Tom reaches the bottom of her coat, pushing it off her shoulders, thumbs brushing her skin. Sofie shivers, goosebumps spreading, her hands come up, unstable as they knot into his coat.

With her eyes still on his, Sofie shifts, her heels clicking on the floor as she toes one off, then the other, sinking down to her proper height. His lip quirks, fondness floods his chest, and before he can catche himself, he cups her cheeks, turning her face higher, a smile growing.

“I love you,” he leans down, feels like miles; so utterly fond of her he feels ill. “So fucking proud of you.”

He presses his lips to her forehead, skin cold and slightly damp from snow, warmth coming back beneath his lips.

Her eyes are closed when he leans back, her body trembling.

 

       “You okay?” he asks quietly, voice low in the pressing silence of the house.

Sofie nods, her fingers moving over his buttons, voice locked in her throat. Her mind repeating his words, thinking she should be happier, should laugh and feel proud and thrilled that she made him proud, thinking only of the way he said  _I love you,_  that the words caught in her throat are  _I love you too, but I don’t think it’s the way I should._

That her only real reason for not kissing Aiden, for not dancing with him like he asked for the first time, for not just trying to kiss him and seeing if she felt  _anything_  at all, was the simple and visceral knowledge that he was not _Tom._

And she wanted Tom; she wanted…wants—

For him to lean down and press his mouth over hers, to taste the champagne on his tongue, to find out how hot his tongue can be, to feel his shoulders flex beneath her hands as his mouth moves over hers, slow and sweet and then hungrier, harder, a need as sharp as her own being fed back on an endless loop of hot, warm air.

Her heart beats wildly, uncontrolled; enough that it floods her body and leaves her unsteady, thankful now for the cold, for the ability to blame the tremor on her chill and not on this terrible, impossible desire.

In the quiet, Sofie lets him pull her jacket off the rest of the way, feels a sharp loss as he steps away, broad shoulders shifting as he pulls off his own coat, hangs both wet, heavy coats in the closet and Sofie allows herself a moment to imagine that they aren’t who they are, that this is their home,  _just theirs_ , that the ring on his finger is there for her, that she’s allowed to want him this way, that when he turns around it will be to lead her upstairs and into the bedroom, to peel her clothes off the way he peeled off her coat, to—

 _God,_   _I’m fucked up._  Sofie swallows heavily, a warmth in her throat and eyes burning sharp with bitter disappointment and shame.

“You sure you’re okay, Sof?” his brows sink, concern obvious, a finger tucks under her chin and Sofie looks up at him and forces herself to smile.

“Yeah, just cold. My room or the study?” her voice sounds forced even to her, but it’s convincing enough, the excuses easy and believable. Tom regards her for another moment and then shrugs.

“Study, easier to watch than on a laptop.”

“Okay, I’m going to change, I’ll meet you there in a minute,” Sofie heads to the stairs, stocking feet quiet, Tom following, wanting to change as well.

They split at the landing, Sofie turning one way and into her room, Tom heading up another flight to the master bedroom.

In her bedroom, Sofie steps into the small bathroom that connects to her room, shutting the door behind her and letting out a heavy breath as she presses against it. Knocks her head back against the door, frustrated, angry…a thousand emotions all burning inside of her.

She moves to the sink, letting the water run hot and scrubs the little bit of make-up her mother had put on her off her face. Presses her face into a soft towel and holds in the desire to scream.

She pulls on a t-shirt, an overlarge sweater, sleep shorts and thick socks; seeking comfort in softness.

 

            In the study, Tom’s already flicking through movie titles, settling on the Godfather as it comes up first. She sinks down beside him on the sofa, a glass of water in his other hand that she steals and takes a long sip from before leaning forward and putting it on the coffee table in front of the couch and brings her knees up, curving closer; Tom drags the blanket from the back of the couch, spreading it out over their laps, his arm warm behind her head, resting over the arm of the sofa.

The movie rolls on, Tom’s hand lands in her hair, playing absently with the loose ponytail; Sofie’s head slumps onto his shoulder, watching a mob wedding play across the screen.

 

 

 

            He wakes, hours later, slumped sideways, curled around Sofie, her body warm and soft and obviously asleep; her breathing low and even. He’s tucked between the couch back and her body, the blanket tangled and hot around their legs. He blinks, groggy and still half asleep, tilts his head up, the screen dimmed slightly in sleep mode. The house is silent; in the light from the window, the snow still falls heavily, thick and fat snowflakes swirling across the glass and building up on the sill.

Blinking heavily Tom watches the snow fall, a dream half-remembered and lingering in his mind. His pulse a little fast, body overwarm—

Sofie shifts in her sleep, wiggling against him and it’s only in the shift, the press of her body against his that he feels the weight of his cock, the half hard line pressed against her ass.

_Jesus Christ._

Tom reaches for the blanket tangled around their legs, trying to pull it off without disturbing her, doesn’t want her to wake up and feel—

Sofie shifts again, mumbles in her sleep and gropes behind her. Probably looking for the blanket he realises.

She shifts, her hand hits his arm and pulls it over her body; she must be half awake because she mumbles out  _dad,_  and rolls beneath his arm, tucking her face into his neck.

But the blanket wrapped around her, tucked mercifully between them, a barrier covering the bulge in his cotton pants.

And if he doesn’t feel like an absolute  _pervert_.

He stares at nothing, mind and body frozen still, his hand gripping onto the couch on the other side of her.

Sofie wakes slowly, tired and languid; Tom feels his stomach turn, doesn’t understand why his cock is still hard, why he’s—

“Time’st?” she mumbles into his neck, exhaling heavily. It races through him, a ricochet of heat that pools low. Tom clenches his jaw, his mind screaming: _you sick fucking bastard._

He can’t even move away, knows the hard line of his arousal would be obvious; knows he isn’t small, that there would be no goddamn way to hide the hard length of his cock when all there is is loose cotton covering him.

Why the fuck is he turned on, and why the fuck is he still hard?

Sofie rolls and wiggles onto her back before sitting up and tugging off her sweater in a swift, too quick for him to stop, move.

He feels stuck, frozen solid, a statue of fear and unbound arousal;  _what the fuck is wrong with me?_

She drops back down, stretching out, spine arching; the thin t-shirt she has on is slipping off one shoulder, baring the sharp line of her clavicle, the beginning swell of her chest—

He tears his eyes away, watches as Sofie’s hand reaches out for the remote, flicking to the weather channel to see the time.

 _One thirty am,_ blue glows over the room, the forecast rolling over the screen. The volume muted.

Sofie watches it quietly for a few minutes, her eyes blinking heavily every time he flicks down to look at her face in the shifting glow of the television.

He wants to know why he hasn’t shifted away, why his hand is clenched into the fabric of the couch on the other side of her body, why, for all that he feels sick for being hard, fucked up for staying, he fucking cantc tear himself away—

That some part of him wants to pull her closer, wrap his arm around her waist and hold her tighter, tucked around her and just…sleep, he wants to sleep, right?

He refuses to let his mind go anywhere else. Stares sightlessly at the shifting temperature patterns being displayed in red and blue arrows over the map on the screen. Refuses to think about why he’s hard, tells himself it’s not unreasonable, it’s a fact of being a man, of having a cock, inappropriate erections happen.

It’s just that it’s been awhile. Just the champagne from earlier. Just that it’s a warm body against his.

It’s not Sofie.

Refuses to admit to the doubt crawling up his spine; he’s still fucking hard.

 

            Sofie blinks, chases away her dreams, a flush on her cheeks she hopes the pale light from the television hides. She’s a little…wet; a little achy. Her dreams were muddled, but she knows the width of the hands in her dreams, knows the shoulders she was scratching into, knows the voice rolling into her ear, hotter, heavier than reality, her name made into an urging desperate breath.  _Sofie—_

She shifts, tightening her thighs and feeling the slippery feel of arousal hot and damp on her cotton shorts; can’t stop the hotter flush from burning across her face.

She turns her head to look at the man who raised her; Tom and  _Dad_ , and all the things he is to her and she can’t stop seeing the jaw line her dream self was nipping at.

Tom looks down at her, slightly above her on the couch pillow, her head on his arm; his eyes unknowable in the light from the television. His expression blank. Sofie feels her body heat, a pulse racing twist of want in her stomach.

Feels ashamed, but would rather stay here, tucked up against him than run as she thinks she should. Should shower and peel this shame from her skin, slick the sticky, slippery want that lingers between her legs with the beating press of hot water.

But instead, she rolls over, tucking her head back into his neck and closing her eyes.

She doesn’t want to leave.

 

         Tom stares long and hard at the snow out the window, at nothing at all. Sofie breathing soft and slow as she falls back into sleep, his hand white-knuckled, body stuck and frozen and immovable.

His mind, a chaotic mass of contradictions. Half screaming at him to leave, half wanting nothing more than to stay right where he is. Disgust reigns; but his cock is throbbing with—

 With something he refuses to acknowledge at all.

It’s not Sofie. It’s not.

 

God fucking damn it, it’s  _not_.

 

And beneath it all, the ready, cold and inescapable knowledge that this is not the first time he has thought it.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

* * *

Chapter VI

* * *

 

 

.

 

 

            His phone alarm buzzes on the bedside table, a low vibration that makes Lise shift in the bed beside him, rolling over and curling up with a mumble.

It hums against dark wood, a muted sound that barely registers through the fog of his mind. Tom blinks, eyes moving sightlessly over the pale-blue light of pre-dawn that slowly crawls over the bedroom.

In every blink he catches a flash of his dreams—

(Blonde beneath his fingers, soft skin, a wanting voice.)

He blinks again, the room lighter by degrees, the sun not even peaking at the horizon.

(A hand curling over the back of his neck, pulling him down to a pink mouth.)

He sits up, scrubs a hand over his face, his hair; as if he can scrub the images from his mind, dig them out with his fingers and let them rot somewhere other than behind his eyelids.

It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself, the mind is a terrifying, complex and utterly unknowable thing.

It doesn’t mean fucking _anything_.

Habit drives him; he reaches for his phone and thumbs off the alarm; his feet touch the soft rug over the cold floor and he pauses, stuck in the moment again; his head heavy and pounding a two-fingered beat against his temple, every thump-bump an image.

Drops his head into his palms, elbows digging into his knees, images flickering on every blink, all skin and sounds and soft—

He forces himself to move, carpet turns to cold floor, to tile, to the wet warmth of the shower as it beats down on his back. He focuses on the pressure, on water just a bit too hot, like he can scald out the memory of his dreams.

He ignores the weight of his arousal; the hard, hot line of his cock aching, aching…

Ignores the voice in his head telling him he knows who that dream-mouth belongs to.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “Got something that might interest you,” Baylor says, leaning against the short partition dividing the desks of the detectives, her hip jutting out, a coffee in one hand and a manila file folder in the other.

Tom turns, leaning further back in his chair, looking up at her with a raised brow, waiting for her to continue.

“Come on, Graydon, say please,” her lip twitches, she knows Tom isn’t known for  _please_ or  _thank you,_  not at work.

 Tom waits, staying silent and holding her eyes, Baylor looks at him for a long minute before rolling her eyes. “Men,” she sighs and then plops the file folder on his desk. “Guess who’s been showing their face around town?”

He opens the file, a stack of photos clipped inside, papers behind that, a list of times and locations in a slanted blue pen.

In each photo is a well-built man nearing his fifties, grey at his temples, a broad jaw and cocky, confident smirk always, always on his fucking face.

“How long’s he been back?” his voice blank, emotionless as he flips through the photos.

“Best guess would be a month,” she shrugs. “Preliminary investigations put first foot in our city sometime last month, bank transactions dated a few weeks prior, but those can be handled by phone or internet, so it’s not a solid reference point.”

“The Lieutenant know?”

“Not yet,” Baylor sips her coffee. “Our UO wanted to be sure he was staying before alerting us.”

Tom grits his jaw, teeth grinding.  

“I just got the information a few hours ago, UO couldn’t get in, said it’s been tight.”

“He done anything?” Tom flips to the white papers at the back, the penmanship quick, obviously rushed.

“Not yet, getting his feet back on the pavement, informant says he’s been quiet. Buying a new house.”

“A fucking _house_ ,” Tom curses. “And the UO thought he should wait a month to come in?”

“He said it’s been tight, you know how paranoid they get.”

Tom grunts, flicking another page, another series of dates and times;  _real estate office 0800-0900, Central Park West, high rise, top floor, 1030. NYI Bank, aprox. 1200, one hr._

“I’ll take that ‘ _thank you, Baylor’_  whenever you’re ready,” she drawls, pushing off the partition and heading towards her desk a few down from his.

Tom stares at the man in the photo, Anderson Calder, forty-seven, owns Calder Shipping, a large array of income properties ranging from Manhattan to the Hamptons, a law firm in the downtown core, used to donate regularly to hospitals, schools and of course, whatever politician he felt would most benefit him

Also had his hands in everything from drugs, to arms, to the sex industry. _Has his hands in_ , Tom highly doubts the man had a sudden change of career just because he went off the grid for a few years.

A few years being over ten years ago.

Anderson Calder, the last case for one Charles Parker; his eyes set on bringing down Calder in one final blaze of detective glory.

Charges filed and dropped, witnesses vanishing, every piece of evidence inadmissible and circumstantial.

And then—

Joshua Parker, dead at twenty-five. Wife catatonic. Four-year-old daughter carried out of the house in the arms of one Tom Graydon.

Anderson Calder the centre focus of the ensuing investigation. Two years trailing him, two years pouring over every detail, every contact, every step he took.

A body found, a connection to Calder, one small, sloppy mistake and  _they fucking had him._

And then, under the yellow humming light of the interrogation room, Tom watching that broad jaw widen, a shark beneath the skin, so fucking at ease it made Tom want to smash his head against the cold metal table they sat around.

_‘I can give you the names of the men who killed one of yours.’_

Tom knew Charles Parker was watching through the glass, a courtesy (nothing more than pity and grief) that shouldn’t have been given, bias and sentimentality that had no place in a case like this.

_‘What was that kid's name? John, Jack…oh, right. Josh.’_

Tom hadn’t wanted to make any deal, they  _had him_ , who cares who pulled the trigger, who cares who broke into that home, they had the conductor, who needs the instruments?

_‘I didn’t kill the kid, you know. But people talk. I listen. I can tell you who they are. Tell Officer Parker, I can help him get the men who killed his boy.’_

Tom didn’t even bother arguing, he knew what was going to happen: two men for one, closure for a grieving father outweighing the man they had, (a shark smelling blood and waiting) his hands folded calmly underneath the interrogation lights, already so sure of the outcome.

The one part of the story he never told Lise later that night over wine shining red and heady on their tongues. Couldn’t bear to tell her, not with the way her eyes filled, with how  _wounded_  she looked. (Not with Sofie asleep in the next room, not with her bedtime story still fresh in his mind.)

Couldn’t tell her that in that moment, and  _only_  that moment, he regretted picking Sofie up. Regretted involving himself in this grieving family, exactly like he knew he would when Gloria Rowen first phoned him and said,  _my granddaughter has been asking for you._

If he hadn’t know Lise, if he hadn’t known Sofie… if he hadn’t seen the weight of not having justice served for the loss of a husband, son, father—

If Tom had kept himself separate from all of it, he would have fought harder, would have spoken louder, would have weighed the long length of suspected criminal activities of Calder out before the other men in the room, would have said  _no two men could be worth locking this one_   _up_. No two men could be worth taking Anderson Calder off the streets.

But he did know Lise, he did know Charles and Anna Parker. And he did know Sofie, who would still ask occasionally if Daddy was okay.

So two names, two thugs, two  _nothings_  for someone like Anderson Calder. Deal struck.

“Fuck.”

  Tom pushes out from his desk, heading towards the lieutenant's office. “Baylor?”

“Yeah?”

“I owe you one.”

“Damn right you do,” she replies as Tom lifts his hand to knock.

 

 

 

 

 

            He wakes up the next morning as hard as the day before, dreams fading away like smoke in the sun, too hazy and abstract for him to remember.

 _Fucking thankfully_.

He steps into the shower, lets the water beat, too hot, against his skin. Wraps a hand around his cock, sliding a wet hand up the length, chasing that momentary relief and muscle relaxing, mind-emptying moment of an orgasm. He moves his fist over his cock, working his hand in slow pumps, mind falling away into skin and sex and lips and—

An image comes, all hazy and heavy like the heat of the steam rolling over the bathroom; a body beneath his, green eyes wide, a soft mouth all bitten red—

“Fuck,” he curses, his hand tearing away from himself, cock heavy, unfulfilled.  

_What the fuck—_

Tom ignores the weight of arousal in his stomach, the unrelieved itch sitting in his spine; mind rolling, spinning off its axis.

_What the fuck._

 

His hand squeaks across the foggy steamed up glass from his shower and Tom catches his reflection in the mirror, condensation dripping and distorting his features.

It’s what he feels: _distorted_.

He thinks back to that night, the one on the couch after the party. His reaction had been—

Distorted. Deformed. Contorted by fatigue, by stress, by alcohol. By being a thirty-four-year-old man wrapped around a warm body, by being a man who hadn’t been laid in a while, by being…

Utterly fucked in the head.

He splashes cold water on his face, the memory of being pressed up against Sofie leaves him…

“Fuck,” he spits. “The fuck is wrong with you, Graydon?”

His reflection says nothing, his jaw tight, eyes angry, shoulders tense; a body at odds.

 

Lise’s alarm goes off as he’s knotting his tie, she yawns, shuffles to her feet, a muttered _mornin’_ as she heads into the bathroom.

The shower goes on, Tom stands in the middle of the bedroom, his hand on the knot of his tie; body at odds, disgusted, aroused, appalled and—

 _Aching_.

Reality is sharp and unforgiving, it so much easier to brush off dreams before the rest of the world wakes up, so much easier to push off momentary fantasies as some fucking momentary break of the human mind, but… but faced with a bedroom, a wife, a  _daughter_  one floor down—

An image from his dreams, stuck behind his eyes; a mouth, soft and sweet over his, saying  _please._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “Hey, Graydon!”

Sofie ignores her name, turning down another hall, Grace sending her a look as they head for the stairs.

“Graydon!”

She can see Grace look back over her shoulder, then over at Sofie again; a question between her brows. Sofie ignores both of them, pace steady as they climb the stairs, jaw tight and mind blank and somehow, flooded with anger all the same.

“ _Sofie_!” Aiden’s voice comes again, bouncing off the empty hallway, most of the students already gone for winter break, but Grace had wanted to pick up an extra assignment and Sofie had tagged along.

“Sofie?” Grace catches her elbow, a frown on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sofie shrugs. “I just don’t feel like dealing with—”

“Sofie, _please_ —”

Grace stops just as they reach the top of the stairs, turning to look down as Aiden takes the stairs two at a time, his eyes focused on them.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Grace crosses her arms, blocking the top of the stairs. “Maybe you should just—”

“Sof,” he ignores Grace, eyes on Sofie who’s standing a few feet farther down the hall, stopped by Grace’s stance at the top of the stairs.

“You _don’t_ get to call me that,” she snaps.

“I’m _sorry_ , Sofie, come on, two minutes, that’s it!”

Grace steps in his path again, nearly as short as Sofie, not much of a threat, but trying to block him all the same.

Sofie sighs, crossing her arms, Grace shoots her a questioning look before stepping out of the way when Sofie clenches her teeth and nods tightly.

“Two minutes.”

Aiden looks between them, shifting from foot to foot before clearing his throat and looking at Grace. “Can you…?”

Grace opens her mouth, the  _no_  obvious, but Sofie blows out another breath, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “It’s fine, Grace, grab your assignment and I’ll meet you at the front doors, okay?”

“Are you sure…” Grace looks between them, at Sofie’s obviously tense stance, at Aiden’s awkward yet insistent presence, her frown growing heavier.  

Sofie nods, forcing a brief smile. “Yeah, make sure Theo actually waits for us, you know he gets distracted.”

Grace smiles hesitantly back, body and face easing at Sofie’s tone, “Yeah, okay, um, I’ll just…go then.”

Her footsteps fade, heading up another flight of stairs, leather shoes a steady noise until it fades somewhere above them.

Aiden clears his throat, stepping closer, Sofie steps back in a mirrored movement. He frowns, swallowing hard.

“Right. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, about Saturday night?” he licks his lips, shifting, eyes focused on her. “I was…I had too much to drink.”

“That’s not an  _excuse_ ,” her nails dig into her palms. “Or an apology.”

“I _know_ ,” he rakes a hand through his hair, brown mussed as he scrubs the back of his head, frustration obvious. “I know it’s not. I just—”

Sofie says nothing, arms crossed, one foot braced slightly behind her, ready to pivot and run if she needs to, Tom’s voice in her head,  _running is always the first choice, Sof. Don’t be stupid and brave, just run._

“I drank before the party, and then there was more there, right? And I had way too much, and Sof, you looked… _amazing,_  and I wanted to…” he steps forward, one halted step, Sofie stepping back again.

“I’m really fucking sorry.”

It’s soft, low, more of an exhale than anything else, and Sofie knows, can see it on his face that he is  _sorry_ , but she’s heard stories at the station, detectives with low voices, cops laughing in the halls, seen people with cuffs on their wrists, pleading about how _sorry_ they are _,_ how they _didn’t mean it,_ how they _won’t do it again._

But they almost always do.

“Okay,” Sofie shrugs. “So you’re sorry, what do you want from me? Absolution?”

He looks taken aback, as if he hadn’t though much outside of Sofie just accepting his apology.

“Yes— no— I mean— I don’t know,” he swallows, eyebrows sinking and eyes moving over her face. “I just wanted to…explain it, I guess. To say I was sorry.”

“Okay, you said it,” Sofie just wants him to leave, wants him to realise without her having to explain it, that what he did, what he wanted, was  _wrong._

“Okay,” he bites his lip, eyes flicking over her and Sofie knows he hasn’t learned anything. That he doesn’t understand how different it is for a girl, how serious Tom’s face is when he tells her to hit harder, to not be afraid to hurt him, to move faster and fight dirtier because she’s small and a girl and the world  _is not fair._

 That she’s been taught to watch out for threats because of her gender, no matter how unfair it seemed; to always be aware because things happen. Do happen. Did happen; eleven years ago, in her own home.

_I like you alive, Sofie. So, fight dirty, fight to run, fight to get free._

But that she never thought she’d need to remember these things at school.

“So, you forgive me?”

Sofie wants to say no, but she nods, trying to remember he’s fifteen just like her, stupid and foolish and driven by hormones. That she’s gotten caught up in the same things, she just does it in the privacy of her own bed, beneath the covers, a forbidden name pressed into cotton.

(Her cheeks hot, her fingers slippery; imagining, wanting, dreaming about—)

“Yes.”

Aiden blows out a breath, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, body easing like someone cut the strings that held him up, relaxing as Sofie accepts.

“Great,” he hooks one hand in the strap of his bag, standing straighter, mouth tilting back into the normal, cocky smirk he wears as he turns for the stairs, probably as ready as she is for this entire conversation to end. “You really did look amazing though, Graydon. Almost didn’t recognise you.”

 _Yeah_ , she thinks as they head towards the cafeteria, a few feet apart, his eyes darting to her every few steps as he fills the silence with talk about the soccer finals coming up after Christmas break, _definitely didn’t learn anything._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “You gonna come out for drinks tonight, Graydon?” Decker asks over his shoulder as he pins the last set of photos to the wall.

Marcus snorts, shaking his head from where he’s tilted back on two legs of his chair, his brown eyes lit with mirth.

“Yeah, right. When’s the last time you seen Tom come out?”

“It was—” Tom stops, thinking back, flicking through the days…weeks… _shit, months_?

“Yeah, exactly,” Marcus laughs as the room stays silent, no solid date quick to rise in any of their minds.

“November 23rd, Rinon’s birthday,” Tom blurts, the date finally coming back, remembers the night because he was late; Sofie had a soccer game that he went to before it and the three of them went out to dinner after.

“And before that?”

Marcus’s birthday in September; and he fucking brought Sofie.

Tom doesn’t bother answering, shooting a look at Marcus, like  _alright, you made your point_.

“Hey,  _yeah_ ,” Decker nods, face scrunching up like he’s thinking back on all of Tom’s absences from the rather regular meet-ups at the local cop bars. “You never come out. Why don’t you ever come out?”

Tom shrugs, starting to re-organise the files spread out over the desk, an eye on the clock, knowing it’s nearing four-thirty.

He feels the expectant eyes of the other three detectives in the room, can feel both Baylor and Marcus’s smirks growing; he knows exactly what they’re going to say.

“Don’t even,” he warns, pointing a finger at Marcus.

Baylor just laughs, “Oh c’mon, it’s _cute_.”

“What’s cute?” Decker looks between them, new enough to the Precinct that the people and the relationships are just tangled wires he’s hasn’t even begun to really get into.

“How fucking _whipped_ Graydon is,” Marcus laughs, dropping all four legs of his chair to the floor with a thud. “Whipped by his _kid_ , no less.”

“ _Oh_ , you mean Sofie?” Decker nods again as if it’s clear to him now.

Tom just shakes his head, pushing to his feet. “It’s not my fault she’s more entertaining than you fucks.”

Marcus pushes back as well, cleaning up his own spread of files. “ _Uh-huh_ , she’s got you wrapped around her little finger, man.”

“See,” Baylor smiles, her legs up on the table, hands folded over her stomach, all at ease. “ _Cute_.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Tom laughs, heading for the door. “I’m not whipped.”

“ _Uh-huh_ ,” Marcus says again with a smirk. “Where you going then?”

Tom shoots him a middle finger, grin breaking wide. “To get my kid and take her home.”

“Yeah,” Marcus laughs. “That’s what I thought.”

Their laughter follows him into the hall, Tom just snorts, not really expecting them to understand.

Not that he does either, come to think of it.

 

            Sofie’s waiting at his desk, still bundled up in her coat, hat and scarf, cheeks red from the cold, clutching at a warm Starbucks cup, another on his desk and waiting.

“You can’t possibly be cold in all that,” he teases, leaning over the back of the chair to reach the coffee cup, pressing a kiss to her cold cheek in greeting.

Sofie sniffs, her nose red. “Fucking frozen.”

“Why didn’t you just go home?” He leans back moving to rest against his desk, facing her as she shrugs, the movement nearly lost beneath layers.

“Habit,” she mumbles, but she doesn’t look up from her cup; Tom thinks about pressing for a better answer, but he lets the statement be and looks at her instead. Shiny, black winter boots with a pair of warm, grey wool socks folded at the top, thick, dark stockings under the barely visible tartan skirt, her black pea coat hanging mid-thigh; gloves dripping snow on his desk where she peeled them off to cup her drink instead. Her cheeks flushed, hair a little damp and lashes clumped from snow.

She looks—

Tom sips his coffee, unwilling to let that thought go any fucking further.

He thinks about the words in the briefing room, the easy way it was brought up, the easy fact that Tom always chooses Sofie over anyone else. That Sofie has him wrapped around her finger.

And she does, he knows.

He drove an almost six-hour round trip every weekend for three years just to spend Saturdays with her.

That nearly all their free time is spent together, whether it's on the couch, or at the gym, or a few hours before bed, talking, in front of a movie or just… _being_.

Maybe that’s what these feelings have been lately; crossed wires, mixed signals, some hind part of his brain confusing Sofie for…for what?

A partner?

His stomach flips, he brings the coffee cup up, hiding his contemplation behind swallowing the hot, bitter drink.

In his mind, he sees them exactly like they are now, realises how little would change, except…

Except…

“You ready to go?” he asks, trying to break out of his thoughts, to shove them away, to find just a little bit of fucking _sanity._

Sofie nods, swallowing down another mouthful of hot chocolate, no taste for coffee, he knows.

Sofie tucks under his arm and against his side as they head out of the precinct, both of them quieter than normal. Snow crunches beneath their boots, falls around them; each with one hand warmed from their drinks. The car starts up as they walk, warming up for them as they make their way through the parking lot.

Just how routine it all is sticks against his skin the way the snow lands and melts off, a brief awareness that leaves a lingering feeling.

That maybe they are too close.

That maybe how easy it is to tilt the world just slightly, to realign Sofie from—

Fucking  _daughter_  to fucking  _partner,_  is  _fucked_   _up_.

Their seat buckles snap, sharp and bright in the cold as they lock in pace, Sofie reaches for the radio, flipping stations; Tom sets his coffee between them in the holder, rolling the engine over and watches Sofie put her fingers over the vents, pushing warm air back into cold fingers.

The dream comes back, a sneaking thief of morality, images spinning in more colours than the world has to offer mid-winter. Sofie, all pink and warm beneath his hands, body shivering but not from the cold—

Tom clenches his hands on the wheel, eyes closing, cock twitching in his pants, pulse picking up as arousal spreads over him the way the warm air blows heavily out of the vents.

“You okay, Dad?” Sofie’s voice breaks through his mind, shattering images like glass.

Fucking  _Dad_.

It should not be that easy to imagine, it should not be that easy to twist their relationship from something good into something—

 _Perfect,_  a voice in that traitorous hind part of his brain supplies, while the rest of it screams out,  _perverted._

“Dad?” Sofie says sharper, turning to face him in the seat. Tom blinks, turning to looks at her as well, forcing his thoughts away.

“Sorry, bit of a headache. I’m good.”

Her brows sink together, concern shadowed on her face, but she nods, turning the backs of her hands to the vents to warm them.

A merry voice fills the quiet,  _only four days until Christmas, I hope you’ve all finished shopping—_

 

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

 

      He can see Sofie from where he’s leaning against the wall, surrounded by guests; her head tilts back, laughing at something Theo and Grace are saying. There’s another girl at her side he’s only met a few times, Sam or Sasha or… _Sarah_ , he thinks. Sarah who invited Sofie to her house for a party, where all three of them are supposed to be heading off to shortly, but Lise had wanted her to make an appearance at their own New Year’s Eve party first.

He’s been…careful, a bit distant lately. Trying to find a balance between keeping everything the same but finding a way to stop thinking the things he’s thinking about, to try to find a way to stop fucking dreaming about her.

It’s not worked well yet, but he has at least managed to control his own thoughts during the day. It’s helpful that the holiday season has been so busy, he’s picked and switched rotations with some of the other detectives in an effort to just put a little bit more fucking _space_ between them for a little while, at least until he can figure out what’s going on in his own fucking mind.

It’s a few hours off of midnight, he’s due in at the precinct in an hour, promised Decker he’d cover for him so he could take his girlfriend to Time Square for the ball drop.

He should get going, he knows…

But.

But Sofie’s laughing, wearing some overlarge white thick-knit sweater that’s big enough to be a dress, apparently; keeps slipping off one shoulder and as the night goes on, her cheeks go red with mirth, probably a bit of alcohol (he isn’t blind or stupid) she keeps forgetting to pull it back up.

He tells himself to stop watching, every few minutes he manages to tear his eyes away from her, fingers picking absently at the label of the beer bottle in his hand, still half full and warm by now.

 _Just leave_ , he tells himself as he watches the sweater slide lower, the sharp curve of her shoulder, a thin strap of black that keeps catching his eye.

_Just leave._

He presses a chaste kiss to Lise’s cheek and heads out of the house quietly, the music dulled as the front door shuts. The bitter weight of the cold hits him as he climbs into his car, sitting in the dark, breathing slow and steady… It’s a razor sharp cold that peels off the lingering warmth in his blood and belly, the one that wanted to follow that black bit of lace down and—

He punches the steering wheel, fury bright and bursting out. All of it directed at himself.

There is something _wrong_ with him.

His knuckles sting as he flexes his hand, the car idling, filling up with warm air blowing in from the vents.

Tom waits; waits until his breath isn’t so visible, until his fingers feel less sore and his mind less torn between want and revulsion.

 

 

 

_‘Are you stayin' now?’_

_‘For as long as you’d like me to.’_

_‘Forever, then. Stay forever.’_

 

The memory burns behind his eyelids, caught in his throat, a jagged frame of time as sharp as broken photo frame. Sofie no more than six, the  _Dad_ on her tongue making his heart trip, swell, set to burst. A nothing moment, tucking her into bed, her eyes wide and green and so honest in the request; the easy way she asks for forever, like she has any comprehension of forever outside of one moment.

But, Tom did. And he did. Stay, that is. 

 _Forever_.

Like Sofie weaved a little spell made up from nothing but belief on that one request.  _Stay forever_. And Tom, helpless to say no since…well, _forever_.

The clock on his computer ticks down, 11:32.

He’s not blind, he sees things, it's his job to see things. Sofie was always cute, the type of kid you’d see in a commercial for the Gap, or in a magazine, she’s was that little button-nosed thing that makes people smile.

He isn’t stupid, he knows why men look at her, no matter what Marcus says, sticking Detective Rinon in Sofie’s school outfit would not have the same effect on a room full of officers.

Sofie is pretty in a way that turns heads; all bright-eyed and dimple-cheeked. An easy, uncomplicated pretty, turning into something a bit more devastating as the years go on.

And this leaves him here: sitting at his desk on the skeleton crew for New Year's Eve, staring at the empty cubicles around him and trying to piece his life together. A crime scene of events:

 A chalk outline on his heart of a little girl on the stairs. A home,  _Dad_ , building a new life because that same little girl asked for forever.

Spending three years driving six hours to spend a day with her. 

Calling fucking France every night just to hear her _voice_.

 

11:40

 

And now—

Now he’s a thirty-four-year-old man who can’t stop dreaming about his fucking fifteen-year-old stepdaughter—

 _Daughter,_  he thinks.  _Don’t fucking kid yourself, she’s as good as._

Now he’s thirty-four and he’s not blind and he’s not stupid and Sofie is _devastating_.

 

11:45

 

Now he’s—

There’s a noise behind him, Tom glances over, expecting a cop and wondering if he is actually needed for something; he tilts back in his chair, looking towards the front desk down the hall.

“Sofie?” he blurts, stumbling over the fact she’s walking down the hall, bundled up against the weather; wondering briefly if he’s cracked entirely and he’s dreaming her up.

“What are you doing here? Are you okay?” he asks in a rush, moving to stand.

But Sofie nods, pulling her hat off her head, her coat as she gets closer, dropping the whole bundle on Marcus’s desk and Tom sinks back down into his chair.

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” she says quietly, like the empty, half lit office means she should be nearly as quiet.

“I thought you had a party?” he questions, still trying to follow along and figure out why she’s here.

She shrugs, her sweater slips and Tom refuses to follow the shift of it and stare. She’s standing at his side, her bottom lip pulled just a little in her mouth like she’s biting it, almost exactly at eye level with him seated in the chair. It’s another moment of silence, and then Sofie rests a hand on his shoulder, the contact sudden, more jarring than it should be, and she’s shifting, toeing off her boots, holding onto him for balance; Tom feels his eyebrows sink together, a little lost, caught somewhere between concern and confusion.

“How’d you get here?”

“Uber,” she nudges the arm of the chair and Tom pushes back, rolls out from the desk, barely a few inches before Sofie’s clambering up and over, shifting until she’s seated just to the side of his lap, bottom resting on one leg, her legs folded together, knees near his chest, legs over his lap, stocking feet tucked against the arm of the chair.

“Sof—” he starts, body frozen, can feel himself getting hard, his hands tight on the armrests, but she tucks her head against his shoulder, one of her hands knots into the fabric of his shoulder, just holding on.

 

The clock ticks, 11:50.

 

“You’re supposed to spend New Year’s Eve with the person you want to spend time with the most,” she says quietly, voice soft, something filled with a quiet plea, like the rest of her sentence should be,  _don’t question it, please._

_Don’t ask._

And he thinks… he thinks he understands it far more than he should.

His heart's beating heavily, pulse rapid, there’s no way she can’t feel his pulse, he closes his eyes and breathes steadily, trying to slow it down, trying to think about something else,  _anything_  else, to make that low-humming arousal fade.

In the quiet, in the stillness of Sofie’s body over his, Tom sends a quiet, heartfelt thank you to whatever god that’s listening that she’s sitting on one thigh and not directly in his lap.

 

11:52

 

 

 

          “Uber’s not safe,” he says suddenly like he only just processed her words; his voice fills the quiet, Sofie feels it roll from his chest, spreading out over her and then the room. She lifts her other hand from where it was tucked against her stomach, lifting and splaying it wide for him to see.

Four sharp metal points between her fingers, the brass knuckles tucked snug, ready for use.

Tom blows out a breath like a laugh, reaching up and slipping it off her hand, the metal loud when he tosses it on the desk.

“Unbelievable,” he presses his lips to her forehead, words heavy and warm over her skin; his arm wraps around her shifting slightly, pulling her farther up and more firmly on one leg before it rests over her side, a warm weighted blanket of muscle around her.

 

11:55

 

The room seems disconnected from reality, a little corner of the earth that separate from everything else, distantly, the very faint sounds of voices, the other side of the precinct, she thinks.

 

11:56

 

Her heart won’t stop thumping, she feels odd, like she’s missed a step, like she’s run too long and too hard and her entire body is jittery with it.

 

11:57

 

Tom's fingers are twisting though one of the wide-knit loops of her sweater, fiddling in a way he never does. Beneath her forehead, she can feel his heartbeat, unsteady, an off-kilter drum beat, a grand crescendo leading up to—

She lifts her head, Tom meets her eyes, a pale grey, still bright in the dark; his face blank and her hand knots tighter in the white dress shirt on his shoulders.

 

11:58

 

Her lips touch his cheek, a small kiss, faint stubble and something woody and spiced, the same smell she’s known for years and always loved.

 

11:59

 

 

Another kiss, less kiss than a shift of her lips over his cheek, his jaw ticks beneath her mouth, the hand on her thigh twitches. 

 

           12:00, pink lips to the corner of his mouth. Warm breath puffing over his own, not a kiss: electrified nerve endings like the ignition of pure oxygen catching flame. Not a kiss.

 

A question.

 

The room is half lit, the world far away, noises from the other side of the precinct wade through the walls occasionally, dull and distant. Her lips are warm and soft and he—

He tells himself that Sofie’s been drinking, that he  _saw_  her drinking. That it’s wishful thinking. That she’s tired and her mouth slipped.

A thousand excuses, because…because he can’t think anything else.

 

 

Tom turns his head. Her lips pass warm, damp from her breath, over his cheek.

 

 

12:01, Sofie tucks her face into his neck, her hand tightens, white-knuckled and knotting into his shirt. Tom stares at nothing, his hand bruising into her thigh white-knuckled, near painful.

 

 

 

 

            Decker returns at four am, Sofie asleep, still tucked in his lap; he snorts at the sight.

“Man, I hope when I have kids, they love me even half as much as you two do,” he whispers, plonking into his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face before yawning. “Alright, go home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nudges Sofie awake, waiting for her to blink, shift; a slow, lethargic stretch into reality. She slips off his lap and stumbles while trying to get her boots on, blinking heavily while Decker muffles his laughter into his coffee.

“Night,” Tom lifts a hand in goodbye, the other leading Sofie to the door, his own eyes heavy and tired, something gnawing in the pit of his stomach, half wanting, half guilty.  

 

The cold of four am after hours of being pressed together and sharing body heat is staggering, jabs into the mind and skin and Sofie winces, pressing closer to his side and cursing.

“Holy shit,” her teeth chatter, Tom can’t help but agree, thankful he pressed the auto-start nearer the door rather than waiting until it was in sight.

In the car Sofie clams up, eyes closing, arms tucked around herself for warmth.

As he pulls out into the street he can’t help but think of Decker’s words, can’t help but think he’d be better off with half as much love, because this…whatever it was that just almost happened, whatever it was that happened…

That half as much love would be better.

 

That this was all very nearly unbearable.

 

 

            At home, the house is quiet and dark, Tom’s usual greeting of that one dim kitchen light down the hall.

Sofie’s kicking off her boots beside him, teeth still chattering as she pulls off her coat and hangs it over the staircase railing, something she knows drives Lise crazy.

In the half light from streetlamps outside, the kitchen light down the hall, Sofie looks at him, her hand on the railing, her eyes green and open and filled up with something he has no name for; a quiet sadness, a quiet anger, something else as well, buried a bit deeper.

She turns, her feet nearly silent on the stairs, soft padded footsteps as she disappears into the dark of the second floor.

He watches her go.

Hears her door shut quietly.

Then nothing.

 

He doesn’t know why it all feels oddly like he just fucked something up.

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

            A month passes and then another, January and February are cold and grey, winter wears the city down, wears him down.

He dreams, more often than not, of the same thing, his mind turning that night over a thousand different ways, most leave him hard, shifting away with an ache that takes hours to subside because he refuses to lay a hand on himself when he knows that the cause and relief will come from the same fucking images.

And he can’t… he can’t do it.

Dreaming is bad enough, bringing those images into the daylight? Using  _her_  as a fantasy to get off to?

He can’t.

What’s worse is he can’t even bring himself to fuck his own  _wife,_  can’t separate the cause of his arousal to even lay a hand to himself let alone someone else. And he flat out fucking refuses to act like he wants Lise when he doesn’t. Can’t use Lise as some sort of proxy, a fucking stand-in body for—

For  _her._

Worse still, worse than all the rest is that everything feels fucking off. Tilt-shifted. Like he’s watching all of three of them go through the same motions out of habit.

They wake, work, eat, sleep. Wake, work, eat, sleep. Sofie finishes soccer, they take her out to dinner to celebrate her team’s victories. They watch movies, Sofie still curls up beside him, but it always feels stiff, like she’s telling herself to stay still.

But then, so is he. (So fucking aware of every inch of skin, of body heat, of limbs pressed against limbs.)

They still practice together but Tom’s more conscious of his own body than hers. Which might actually be better for Sofie, she manages to hurt him more often, her confidence growing the more bruises she leaves behind.

But he has to be more conscious of his body, because he’s too aware of hers, too aware that somewhere along the way he stopped seeing cute and started seeing pretty, too aware that somewhere along the way he should have stepped back, should have drawn some line between them, set the shapes for the roles they  _should_  be in.

But they’ve always been too close and now he doesn’t know how to separate and untangle without tearing something, without leaving a hole in his life or hers, and for all that he knows he  _should_ , he doesn’t  _want_  to.

Giving up Sofie would be more like tearing off an arm, or more than that, his fucking _heart_ and he’d be no better than some shadow of a man. Some shade of who he is now, a jaded, bitter, smokes too much, drinks his sorrows kind of cop—

No man at all.

 

 

 

 

            Spring spreads over New York as the chill fades, white turns brown, turns back to black pavement and grey cement.

The past few months have easily been the worst of her life, and Sofie doesn’t need the justification of being a teenager to make dramatic statements like these. They have _easily_ been the worst months  _ever._

Tom’s gone more than he’s not. And even when he is there, right in front of her, he isn’t really there at all.

And she knows it’s all her fault.

Stupid to think that he’d want her to kiss her, that he would turn his mouth over hers and that hand on her thigh would slip higher, pull her closer, as close as she wants to be; no room at all between them.

Stupid to think that he’d ever see her as anything other than a kid.

Stupid to think someone like him would want some skinny, sarcastic, rough-edged girl when he had someone like Lise, like her fucking  _mother_. Who was brilliant and beautiful and all the things that Sofie’s always been told a woman should be.

 _God_ , Sofie thinks.  _How fucking stupid am I?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

          Baseball at Briar Hill has always been co-ed. The board rationalising that because of the lack of physicality, that is, physicality between players, there was no reason to separate the girls from the boys. Sofie has always loved this, would rather test her skills against any player, take on any challenge and not be limited by the parts that they have in their pants.

But now…

Practices start mid-march; a new coach, a man Sofie doesn’t know, one who runs Sofie ragged (or rather, turns her arms to Jello) until he concedes her a place on the team. She shouldn’t be surprised, she knows how these things go; it isn’t new for her to be underestimated, but on top of everything else going on Sofie feels the frustration building, setting hot behind her eyes, every practice makes her angrier, every comment from the coach or another boy makes her fists clench. She’s already been reprimanded three times for fighting or for her mouth and the season hasn’t officially started.

It’s worse, so much fucking worse, because the one person who she wants to go to, whether to cry or sweat out the aggression or just…fucking  _cuddle_ until she feels better is the one who’s causing the frustration in the first place.

She can’t go to _him_ because all being around him does is make her more frustrated, more angry, more hurt that he doesn’t want her the way she wants him.

And there’s nothing she can do about it; it isn’t a game, isn’t a sport. Sofie can’t run faster or throw harder, can’t swing with everything she has and make him  _see_  her.

 

_Just fucking see her._

 

 

            Aiden rotates the bat around his hand, a swing he knows they aren’t supposed to do, one that’s too easy to send the bat flying.

“Harper or Donaldson,” he asks, the bat swings around and smacks hollowly in his palm.

“Harper,” Sofie replies easily as they walk off the field and towards the change rooms.

“Donaldson,” a player behind them interrupts, listening in.

Sofie adjusts her ball cap, not caring enough about the conversation to argue between the two players.

“Nah, it’s Harper,” Aiden agrees with Sofie, because  _of course_  he does. It’s nearly like he’s actively trying to be friends with her when all Sofie wants is for things to go back to normal. Normal being a barely veiled dislike for the other.

Her normal, apparently not his.

“He’s younger, right? So he’s only going to get better,” Aiden reasons, the bat smack his palm again.

It’s annoyingly part of Sofie’s reasoning for picking Harper, but she doesn’t say anything, just wants to head home and suffer through another awkward evening of pretending that she didn’t try to kiss Tom and got effectively shut down.

“You want to go grab a bite to eat or something, a bunch of us are going?” Aiden jogs to catch up to her, having got sucked into to a debate with the other boy.

“No, I’m good, I should get home.”

“It’s only like  _five_ ,” Aiden turns to walk backwards so he can look down at her face. “Come on, my treat.”

Sofie thinks about going home and eating dinner between her parents, her  _married_  parents, or going out with her teammates and maybe actually having a good time instead of moping like she’s been doing for so long now.

Moping. Over a kiss that never even really happened. For all she knows Tom could be thinking that she missed his cheek or…

But there was  _something,_  wasn’t there? His hand was…and his pulse had been…

Sofie blows out a breath of irritation and frustration, nothing she hasn’t thought over, peeled apart a thousand times and still come to the same unchangeable, irrefutable fact:

Tom turned his head.

“Yeah,” Sofie looks up at Aiden, at his hopeful face and knows she shouldn’t, but says  _yeah, okay then._

“Awesome,” Aiden grins. “A few of the guys can drive, so we’ll pool in with them, sounds good?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sofie shrugs, then points to the sign on the door that Aiden was following her through. “Wrong door, Marks, unless you have something to tell me.”

He stops, looks at the  _Girls_  painted on the door and then laughs and backs up, “No, I’m definitely male,” he winks. “I can prove it to you—”

Sofie lets the squeaking door shut it in his face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “Graydon,” he tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder, shutting off the tap and drying his hands, Sofie pauses while loading the dishes in the machine, eyes flicking up to his as he leans his hip against the counter, listening to the voice in the receiver, their eyes meeting briefly before he looks away.

Lise nudges him over, used to the interruptions, used to the real world intruding into hers; continuing on with the post-dinner cleanup.

“Where?” he heads to the study to get his badge and holster, listening to the address, the sounds of the radio behind the officer on the phone. He doesn’t bother responding again, the phone disconnects as he tucks it back in his pocket.

He shrugs on his jacket, moving back to the kitchen, a quick, chaste kiss on Lise’s cheek in goodbye, no words needed, nothing she isn’t well versed in.

Sofie’s eyes are on the table as she wipes it down; there isn’t really anything to say at all, he knows. A few months ago he would have touched her in some way before he left, pulled her out of that little bit of worry that always crosses her face when his phone rings; but now everything feels weighted, a touch feels like anticipation. A kiss on the cheek: a current dragging something innocent into something not. Turning every interaction muddled and heavy like the thick, cloying weight of summer turning limbs viscous. Every breath filled with dense air, every touch too warm and too much.

He wants to kiss her, and not at all innocently.

So instead he touches her shoulder, briefly, her t-shirt soft beneath his fingers as they slide over her shoulder blade as he walks away.

 

 

 

 

            Marcus pulls up seconds behind him, jacket being pulled on as he climbs out of his car.

“Detectives,” the cop greets, tilting her head with an instruction to follow into the alley. They step over gravel and glass, the flickering of red and blue lights shifting shadows. “Victim is one Eric Rynd, better known as Grinder, done time for drugs and weapons charges, lately been known to be running the majority of coke in and out of— ”

“We know,” Marcus interrupts. “Not a new face.”

She nods, turning to look back at them quickly. “Right, sorry. I transferred here a few months ago, I’m still learning all the new faces and,” she motions to the body on the ground. “Criminals.”

“One less to learn,” Tom steps forward, moving around the tape to get closer.

The three of them fall silent, standing over the twisted body on the pavement, not hidden, just left there, waiting to be found.

“It’s odd, right?” the officer voices, leaning over the body. “They could have put him in the dumpster or something. He probably wouldn’t have been found for a while, if at all.”

“Probably not,” Tom says absently, feeling no need to have this conversation with a cop, with a new cop, too many names and facts to explain why this one matter more than some random shooting between gangs.

“It almost looks like they wanted him to be found,” she trails off, looking at the clear line from alley entrance to where they stand now.

Marcus looks at him from the other side of the body, already knowing the history, already knowing that Rynd filled the whole of Calder’s absence, whether by command or not is yet to be determined; the only thing they do know is that Calder’s back and Rynd is dead.

 

 

 

          A few days later, Lise rolls over in bed and presses her lips against his, it’s brief, familiar, filled with  _nothing._

She rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “Well, that fucking sucks.”

Tom tries not to laugh at the depressive, resigned tone, licks the minty taste of her mouth off his lips, “What does?”

“Why do you think we never really fell in love?”

He’s been expecting it, this conversation, for months, maybe even years, but now that it’s here it feels a bit like dread’s squeezing into his chest; he likes his life, his home, his family.

Tom rolls up onto his elbow, caught for a moment by how odd it is, that they’ve lived like this for so long, even with both of them knowing that they don’t love each other the way they should, for being married for nearly ten years. “I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “Do you still love Josh?”

Lise looks at him, her hair caught beneath her on the pillow in a mess of light brown, eyes so similar to Sofie’s, a bit darker and a bit sharper a bit less…staggering. “Sometimes, in some ways. I do love you, though, you know—”

Tom nods, he does. “I know, you know I do too.”

Lise nods, eyes moving back to the ceiling.

“I remember when I first met you, like really met you, out of the hospital at that Starbucks on Fifth,” she sighs, her mind pulling the memory up as clearly as Tom can see it himself. “I thought  _shit, he’s hot._ ”

She laughs, pushing her hands over her face, a move he’s seen both mother and daughter do when they laugh through something they feel is embarrassing.

Tom huffs, humoured by her statement; remembers thinking the same about her, that she wasn’t what he was expecting at all.

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t met you when I did. I think maybe I was too messed up, still trying to figure it all out and you were there and I still loved Josh, but shit, Tom, you were  _there,_  and you were so good with Sof and to me and...”

She breaks off again, sitting up, running a hand through her hair to pull it over her shoulder, shooting him a look over her shoulder. “It all just made sense, right?”

She’s looking for unanimity, for validation, he knows. He nods, Lise turns back around, fiddling with the duvet.

“We just  _worked_ , you and me, and it wasn’t hard or forced, it all just  _happened_  so easily, I wanted to love you, I wanted you to stay and you did and then  _I did_  and then…”

Then nothing.

They got married, because that’s what you do when you are living with someone and raising a kid; when you have relatives like the Rowen’s who wouldn’t stop asking  _when._

Then nothing.

Because the years passed as it stayed easy, stayed uncomplicated, stayed safe.

Tom sits up, meeting Lise’s eyes for a long while before sighing, heavily, the dread in his chest squeezes tighter. “Do you want me to move out?”

Lise looks shocked, eyes blinking wide. “What?  _No_. Do you want to move out?”

“No,” he frowns. “I just thought this was a divorce kind of conversation.”

Lise huffs a humourless laugh, a bit sad, looking back down at the duvet. “It is, I think. But more like a maybe we should consider separating…” her lips twist, teeth scraping her lip. “But like not telling my parents.”

Tom snorts, “Yeah, I can support that.”

“You’re not upset, or mad?”

“I think we both knew this was coming, Lise, we were always better friends than we were a couple.”

“Yeah, that’s why it sucks,” she laughs.

“Why?”

“Cause your still hot as fuck, Graydon,” she smiles, leans forward and catches his mouth again, all slow, something that should pull him easily into arousal, especially since as far as he knows, neither one of them has done anything in months.

“So are you, Graydon,” it slips out from his mouth and over her lips in a minty puff. Lise shifts, straddles his lap, her eyes mischievous, and it’s in that look he sees someone else.

It’s this look that flashes through him, twists up in his stomach and causes that low burn of  _want_ that’s been in him for months to spark into something hotter, fills out his cock and makes Lise shift over him, her mouth slipping sideways as her fingers slip into the band of his sleep pants.

“One more for the road?” she kisses over his jaw, towards his neck, mouth hot and familiar and Tom’s fingers tighten on her sides, bruising into her hips. He swallows, keeps his eyes open, because he knows, as easily as he breathes that if he closes them... if he lets his mind wander even a little, he’s going to be thinking about someone else.

And he can’t.

He _can’t_.

“One more for the road,” he agrees, then shifts forward, pushing his body over hers, eyes on auburn and not blonde.

 

 

 

 

            They tell Sofie a week later, an odd conversation over dinner, Sofie in the middle as she always has been. Lise says,  _nothing’s going to change, honey._

Tom says nothing, his eyes shifting to Sofie and then to his plate, that same pattern of movement he’s been doing since the start of the year; like he can’t stand even looking at her.

It’s driving her crazy.

Even when things feel mostly normal, even when they laugh, or work out, or are just  _together_  in the way they’ve always been there’s this…sliver of  _wrong_  that abrades at her skin. Like their teetering at a cliff’s edge and barely keeping balance.

Sofie isn’t sure if she wants to keep balance; the balancing is exhausting and painful and it’s slowly, slowly tearing them apart without either one of them even fucking moving.

Lise says,  _we still love each other, we’re just not in love with each other._

There’s nothing for Sofie to say, her mind’s a tangled, knotted mess of worries: that things will change, that Tom will leave, that all three of them will break apart and nothing will ever be the same again. But more than that, Sofie can feel something quite a bit like relief moving through her. Relief that they  _aren’t_  together, because that means that Tom is—

_Shit._

She’s so messed up.

Sofie tells herself it doesn’t mean anything, that just because they aren’t together doesn’t mean that Tom’s suddenly going to want her, that suddenly they could—

“Okay, Sof? You understand, right?” her mother’s eyes are soft, a pleading look and Sofie nods, her throat tight, but not for the reasons they probably think.

Her fork is loud on her plate when she puts it down, metal against porcelain.

“Can I be excused?” but her chairs already scrapping back as Lise nods, her eyes sad.

Their voices follow her up the stairs, a low conversation she can’t catch the words to.

 

          With her bedroom door shut Sofie crawls up onto her bed, dropping face first into her pillow and tries to bite back scream that’s been sitting in her throat since New Year’s Eve.

The one that screams that is just isn’t  _fair_ , isn’t fair that her mother met him first, isn’t fair he’s nearly twenty years older, isn’t fair that he’s her fucking  _dad_ , and most of all it isn’t fair that she loves him so much it's fucking unbearable.

There’s a knock on her door and Sofie sighs, half disappointed and half relieved when it’s her mom slipping into her room and not Tom.

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

            It’s the flash of sunglasses that catch her attention distantly, her focus on the ball rolling in her fingers, stitching rough as she lines her pitch up.

It’s not a new feeling, being  _aware_  of him; but Sofie keeps her gaze steady, her heartbeat even and doesn’t think about anything but hitting the centre of that glove ahead of her.

 

Winds back.

And pitches.

 

 

 

            “Fucking awesome!” Aiden’s voice carries over the crowd, the sound of spectators and teammates. His arm settles over her shoulders, drawing her in to his chest in a raucous hug; she doesn’t think much about the movement, used to Aiden and his unsubtle attempts at friendship. His efforts to be friends or something more, is he’s being honest about it. The moment at the party a distant thought, even though she knows she shouldn’t let him get so comfortable. “You’re coming out to celebrate, right?”

But then another teammate is cheering louder, squeezing in, bumping into them and Sofie doesn’t bother answering, slips out of the press of bodies and cheers of her teammates and heads towards the tall, broad line of a man on the other side of the metal cage; one hand resting on the metal fence, leaning against it as he watches her, smoke curling up from a cigarette.

“Thought you quit?” Sofie squints up, adjusting her ball cap to block the sun beating down on them, though the wind tempers the sunshine and pulls out that late spring chill.

He shrugs, muscles shifting beneath his shirt, a noncommittal answer, something tight in shoulders, the set of his jaw.

“That the kid from the party?” his voice is low and rough, from smoke and something else.

Sofie looks back, Aiden at the edge of the group of players, grinning, glancing over at Sofie, catching sight of Tom behind her and his smile flickers before he turns away.

“He apologised,” Sofie crosses her arms, voice quiet, scuffing her foot in the dirt of the pitch, feeling rather young and stupid, even though no one has any right to judge her choice.

Tom inhales, the cigarette flares, lungs filling.

Sofie waits, can’t see his eyes for the sunglasses; doesn’t think she needs to, his jaw line says enough.

“Did he,” white tumbles out of his mouth, voice smoky. “That makes it all better then, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t be a jerk,” she sets her jaw, mouth tight in anger an irritation. “I never said I forgot it, I just said he apologised.”

The world moves around them, Sofie’s teeth dig into her cheek. She’s mad, acutely, a flare that’s been low and rolling in her for so long igniting at his caustic remark, like he has any right to say anything about her life when he’s so effectively been making himself absent.

“Sof,” he sighs, something soft and strangely rough in the tone.

It’s fucked up that she’s mad at him, she knows she’s the one in the wrong, the one who crossed a line she shouldn’t have. She’s the one who…

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” she blurts, a heat behind her eyes, caught up in her throat and building. Feels eleven and scared she’s never going to come home again, twelve and watching him drive away.

“Sorry?” he questions, confused by the sudden apology. He drops the cigarette, stepping over it with a heavy boot. “For what?”

_For trying to kiss you, for wanting more, for not knowing how to be around you and not want you._

“For New Year’s,” she whispers like it’s something for the darkness, something that shouldn’t see the light of day. And maybe it shouldn’t, maybe she should let it die in the dark and go back to her teammates, be fifteen and stupid, be fifteen and kiss a hundred boys until she finds one she likes the taste of.

But instead, all she wants is a taste of one.

“For kis—”

“ _Don’t—_ ” his voice is hard, heavy, all rough-edged, that tone he gets when he works, she’s heard it in the station, heard it on the street, but it’s never been for her.

Sofie blinks, lowering her ball cap when she feels her eyes heat, her lip quivering as her throat tightens.

“Come on,” Tom orders, pushing off the fence. “Go grab your stuff.”

She nods, pivoting and heading to the change rooms, brushing off her teammates with a haphazard excuse about needing to get home.

He’s already at the vehicle when Sofie gets back. Metal all black and shiny and imposing as he leans up against it, lighting another cigarette, hands cupped to light it, smoke billowing as he inhales and exhales a quick drag.

Sofie climbs in on the other side, waiting for him to finish, swallowing back an irrational need to cry and apologise again.

When he finally climbs in the tobacco smell lingers on him, filling up the car. He reaches for a pack of gum, chasing the nicotine with mint.

“I don’t smoke often,” he offers eventually, the car rumbling quietly beneath them, still in park. “It’s just…stress smoking.”

Sofie nods, voice stuck, wiping her cheek angrily; annoyed at herself, annoyed at him, annoyed at the world and everything being so  _un-fucking-fair._

He pulls away from the curb, hands tight on the wheel, cracking the windows to let the lingering smell of his cigarettes out of the car.

There’s a pack on the dash, half empty. Sofie grabs it and chucks it out the window into the road, saying nothing, her throat burning, voice caught somewhere in her chest.

Tom looks at her every few moments, eyes flickering off the road and to her, but his own voice is locked away, nothing to say at all.

 

 

      Tom pulls the keys out of the ignition, the car dying out slowly in mechanical ticks.

The seatbelt unbuckles with a click, the movement of his clothes over the seat seems deafening as he turns to face her across the car, his mind spinning; her words in his head on repeat, a skipping track,  _for kissing you,_  that’s what she was going to say,  _I’m sorry for kissing you._

Which means that it wasn’t a drunk moment, wasn’t a mistake; it was Sofie— Sofie, _his Sof,_ trying to press her lips, all soft and sweet to his.

 And he turned his fucking head.

And now she thinks it’s all her fault, the distance between them. The one  _he’s_  been manipulating, the one  _he_  wanted because he thought he should, because he thought maybe all of this would go away if they just had a bit of fucking space.

He’s a fucking  _idiot_.

He opens his mouth, but there’s nothing to say, everything is an admission, everything is an acknowledgement that there is something between them, that it isn’t just him and it isn’t just her.

The sound of her door opening pulls him out of his thoughts, the slam of it behind her makes him sigh, a long, heavy exhale full of mint and frustration.

Tom follows her into the house, both of them silent as they cross the threshold; Lise in the kitchen, her voice chipper and so fucking  _normal_  that Tom feels his skin crawl with the absurd realisation that he’s coming home to a (sort of ex) wife, bringing their daughter home and all he can think about is—

_I’m sorry for trying to kiss you._

All he can imagine is what would have happened if he’d let her, if he’d turned his head just a little more the other way, let her press those pouty pink lips over his and share air and then more and more and—

_I’m sorry for trying to kiss you._

For all his own perverted thoughts he never actually considered that Sofie would ever feel or want or…even consider something as deviant as this.

Who knew his sweet little girl had it in her?

Sofie’s face is still hidden by the ball cap, but he knows her,  _knows_ her better than he should probably, and he knows that her eyes turn a violent green when she cries and her mouth gets red and pouty and…

Sofie turns to leave, her foot on the bottom stair, Tom reaches out, can’t stop himself, feeling only like he needs to see her, to keep her—

His fingers catch her wrist tightly. She turns back to look at him, her eyes exactly like he thought, cheeks red and wet and it’s devastating. She’s devastating.

“ _Sofie_ ,” he exhales her name all heavy with apology, with sorrow, with want.

He can’t find anything to say. It’s all stuck. Lodged. Gouging at his throat.

Sofie pulls her wrist back and he lets it go; both of them feeling too caught. Too exposed. Too torn open.

Her footsteps padded on the stairs; her bedroom door shutting quietly. Music plays from the kitchen, he thinks Lise is saying something, but all he can hear is  _I’m sorry for kissing you._

It takes him a long time to move at all; for some reason, this was all very much less real, less twisted, when he thought it was only his own ill thoughts and not… not something else.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

       “Be home by eleven-thirty!” Lise shouts down the hall, hearing Sofie descend the stairs.

“Yeah, love you!” the door shuts in a rush, Sofie spilling out into the sidewalk, towards the car idling at the curb; Theo’s mother driving the two of them to Sarah’s for her birthday.

It’s the last weekend before the end of school and a birthday party for the most popular girl in school, not something that Sofie would normally care to go to, but Theo and Grace had begged her to come with them.

And, there was the added fact that Sofie didn’t want to spend another evening in her room staring at the ceiling and moping about missing someone when that person was literally one floor down.

 

  
        It’s loud and there are drinks being passed around, a variety of drinks provided by Sarah’s older siblings. A rowdy, rather stereoptypical teenage party; Grace pulls Sofie along with her, Theo moving between them and a group of guys hanging around the alcohol.

Sofie has one drink and then water, Grace just rolls her eyes and has another and then another as the hours pass.

“Hey Sofie,” Aiden greets, his eyes flicking over her, his hand drags through his hair, mussing up the short brown. “You look—”

“Aw, Aiden,” Sarah stumbles into his side, leaning heavily. “Are you blushing, you look so cute—”

“Fuck off, Sarah, seriously,” he tries to untangle but she leans heavier, Sofie feels her eye brows slowly climb her head, Grace beside her, pursing her lips to keep from laughing as the obviously intoxicated girl leans harder into him, all loose-limbed.“

Sarah, knock it off.”

“C’mon, Aiden, Sofie doesn’t like you,” the other three of them freeze, Aiden’s hands around Sarah’s upper arms, trying to peel her off as she remains oblivious to her own words. “Don’t be sad, I’ll kiss you.”

Sofie can’t help but think this is kind of what he deserves, having someone drunk trying to press up on you and drag you into something you want no part of.

“Sarah,” Sofie reaches out, touching the girl’s arm. “Where’s Alex, shouldn’t you be kissing him?”

“We broke up,” she laughs, her cheek on Aiden’s chest. “Like, yesterday. Great birthday present right? Happy Sixteenth, Sarah, you get to be single.”

She giggles again and Sofie pulls her back, tugging her against her and sagging a little, surprised by her boneless, drunk swaying.

“I’m a great kisser,” she leans on Sofie. “Like, totally awesome. I’ll show you. Sofie’s never even kissed, right Sofie?”

Sofie feels her cheeks heat, ignoring the weight of Aiden’s gaze.

“Sofie,” Aiden’s eyes are open and honest and he licks his lips like he’s going to say more, when Grace interrupts, clapping her hands.

“Well, that was awkward,” she forces a smile. “Why don’t we all forget that incredibly unimportant fact that Sarah should not have said and go lay this girl down somewhere before she causes any more trouble.”

Sofie feels cold and hot all at once, embarrassed and aware of the fact that it’s true, that Sofie’s only ever put her lips to one person—

And he turned away.

“I think I’m going to go, it’s already almost eleven anyway,” Sofie untangles herself from Sarah, who’s swaying slightly. “Make sure you lock her in her room, right. It’s not safe to leave the door open.”

Grace nods, biting her lip. “How are you going to get home?”

“I’ll call a taxi, it’s only like a ten buck ride.”

“But—” Grace starts and then stops, understanding that Sofie feels embarrassed and that it really is just about eleven and she should be getting home. “Okay, text me when you get there.”

Sofie nods, and she can feel Aiden watching her go, but she ignores it, pulling out her phone and scrolling for a number as she steps out the front door.

It’s only five minutes into the ten minute wait when the door opens behind her and Sofie feels her heart sink a little as Aiden sits down beside her on the step.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” Sofie shifts a little as his legs spread out in a sprawl in front of him.

“You look great and I just… we’ve always teased each other, we’ve always had a thing, right? We like each other, don't we? There’s always been something—”

Sofie sighs, looking down the street for the taxi. “There isn’t anything, Aiden.”

“There is, come on, we’ve got that tension that people always talk about.”

“Yeah, it’s called rivalry,” Sofie insists. “Like, you hate me, I hate you, we like to hate each other.”

“I don’t hate you,” Aiden leans closer, Sofie shifts away again. “I like you, Sofie. You have to know how much I like you, I’ve always—” he blurts, tugging his hair again, like he’s caught between being embarrassed and angry at himself.

“Well, I don’t like you, not like that.”

“You could. Have you ever even thought about it? We could work, we like all the same things, we’ve known each other forever, I know you.”

“You don’t know me,” her face contorts, irritated and disbelieving that he would think he did.

“Then let me,” he insists. “I’ve been trying to— one kiss, let me kiss you once and if you don’t feel anything then I’ll stop, we can just be friends, or frenemies or whatever you want.”

Sofie shakes her head, blowing out a breath. Knowing she isn’t going to feel anything. Knowing that Aiden might feel something and that it would all be worse because of it.  
But, a voice in her head says, curious and wondering, you could, you’ve been caught up on Tom so long you’ve never really considered anyone else.

Maybe it would be nice.

Sofie bites her cheek, her lip; another voice beneath that one saying, you’ve never even been kissed, how can you expect to kiss Tom not knowing how.

“That’s my taxi,” Sofie pushes to her feet, the flicker of lights coming down the street, breaking apart the darkness.

“Sof—”

“Aiden, listen,” Sofie straightens her shorts, brushing off her bum absently. “I’m sorry, okay? I am, you’ve been really…friendly lately, and I hope we can still be friends. But I don’t…I don’t like you like that. I don’t think I ever will. I’m sorry, I mean that, I am. It would be easier if I did.”

She bites her lip, the taxi idles and Sofie backs up, turns, pavement scraping beneath her sneaker and wishes she didn’t feel so bad about all of it.

About the look on his face. About knowing that she can’t even kiss him, not even to try, not even to practice, because it would be cruel and mean…and wrong.

 

  
              _Eleven eighteen_ , the microwave glows green and Sofie presses a kiss to her mother’s cheek before heading up the quiet staircase, glancing at the door a little ways down the hall before she shuts the door to her own room.

She brushes her teeth, washes her face, strips out of her clothes and pulls on a t-shirt, the air conditioning blowing a chill over her legs.

In the quiet, empty moonlight, the front door opens; Sofie climbs into bed, her sheets cool against her skin. There’s shifting on the stairs, dull footsteps and a door down the hall closing.

She doesn’t feel guilty, her fingers slip down over her stomach, over her mound, slip into the slick arousal that builds so easily at the thought of him; her eyes slip closed and she imagines that night, imagines turning in his lap, his wide, warm hands guiding her onto him, working her through it, _there you go, Sof, you’re doing so good—_

  
She doesn’t feel guilty, not anymore, but no matter how many times she does it the want never goes away.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
           Lise is still up when he gets home, a glass of wine beside her, flipping through photos spread out over the table.

“What’re you doing?” he presses a kiss to her temple before sitting at the kitchen island, leaning on the stool next to her and stealing a sip of her wine.

“Sofie’s sixteen in two weeks,” she half smiles, voice quiet. “Crazy right?”

He makes a noise of agreement, low and equally subdued as her voice. “It is.”

Twelve years since he saw her on the stairs, twelve years of that little thing being the centre of his universe and now he’s tilting off his axis and getting lost somewhere in the dark, not sure how to get back.

He looks down over the photos, the spread out collection of a little girl growing up, of a family that he found on accident—

Guilt grows like an infection as he looks at the smiles, the shifting face from a baby he didn’t know, to a toddler he did, to a kid he loved, to a pre-teen that he missed desperately to a teenager he…he…

He’s never been a fan of self-pity, always chosen to take action, to be better, to be stronger and smarter and more in control than before. But now he’s seeing thirty six creeping closer and Sofie is nearly sixteen and self-pity and self-disgust are more at home in his chest than anything else.

“Tom?”

He blinks back into reality and Lise raises her brows, questioning. The soft light of the stove lights her up in soft colours, and he thinks she’s beautiful, thinks he should have been better; a better husband and friend and found a way to love her the way he should have.

Maybe then all of this would be different.

“I’m gonna head to bed,” he clears his throat, pushing to his feet. “Let me know what you want to do for her birthday, I’ll figure out my shifts.”

Lise nods, her eyes moving back to the photos. “Yeah, okay, night.”

“Night,” the hallways dim, the stairs quiet under his weight. It’s in the dark rise of the landing that he lets himself feel the ache of missing Sofie, regardless of what he feels, what’s going on between them, he misses her in a way he can’t really explain.

A slow longing shifting into something visceral; something nearly like the sound of a voice, her voice, so far away through the receiver, another continent feeling like another world. Her voice distant, quiet, hollow. Desperately far away.

It’s nearly what he feels now, like he can see her and hear her, but he can’t touch her. And all he wants to do is touch her.

He looks at Sofie’s closed door as he passes down the hall and into his room; he moved into the spare room last week, which he’s thankful for, because waking up hard next to Lise when Sofie was the one in his dreams was absolute hell on his self-respect and probably was chipping away at his soul a little bit as well.

Even knowing that Sofie apparently wants—

No, he thinks, thinks she wants.

She’s fifteen, she’s confused, she’s…caught up in how close they are.

She can’t possibly want him, and if he was a better man he’d sit Sofie down and tell her, straight up no.

_I don’t want you. Find someone your own age. Find someone that’s not me, Sofie._

But the idea of Sofie being kissed or touched, or fucked by some greedy-handed, undeserving, cocky teenager who just wants to get in her pants turns his ribcage into a vice, his heart into a knife; he can’t handle the fucking thought.

So it leaves him stuck, right here, caught between wanting and pushing away, caught between being a good man and being…

  
Greedy-handed and undeserving.

  
He spent weeks pouring over every article, online resource, abstract reference he could find on co-dependency, on father/daughter relationships…he even contemplated the whole Sotckholm Syndrome theory, but couldn’t stomach twisting their relationship that far and quietly went back to re-reading articles on childhood trauma.

He’s always liked understanding, always felt the need to break things down until he could see every piece and understand what he was looking at. It’s why he’s stayed a detective instead of heading into politics the way he thought he would.

Humanity is fucked. But being able to reach his hands into the worst of them, to be able to tear out the rotting pieces and leave it a little better?

There’s very little comparable to that feeling.  
You don’t always get an understanding of why, and sometimes the puzzle pieces don’t fit together perfectly, but there’s always something hidden, something to discover, some way to align the photos and little scraps of information into something that means something.

Whether it’s justice or closure, or something a bit in between.

So why Sofie—

Why they _both_ , feel the things they feel is a question he wants to understand, wants to pry up their history and find out where he went wrong.

Because it has to be him, doesn’t it?

It’s understandable why he would feel something for her, he can rationalise his own…attraction. Sofie is all dimples and limbs, a blur of gold and green, a tiny, wonderful, heart-achingly devastating girl; so these pieces make sense, at least abstractedly, ignoring the part where he helped raise her.

But Sofie, Sofie has no reason, no place, no goddamn motive to want him; he’s thirty-five, doesn’t have family outside of them, drinks too often, guzzles coffee like water, swears too much, smokes when he knows he shouldn’t, and while he knows he’s an attractive guy, it doesn’t change anything else.

And it definitely doesn’t change the fact that Sofie deserves better.

He wants to understand where he went wrong, if he held her too much, gave into her too often, if somewhere along the way he did or said something wrong.

Because the alternative is admitting that there was no cause, there was no entry wound; that its fate, or serendipity, or divine fucking intervention.

That he and Sofie are just unfortunate enough to love each other more than they should.

And yet lucky enough to love each other. More than they should.

 

* * *

* * *

 

  
        They don’t file any paperwork, not yet, they both still wear the rings, but as Lise’s summer starts she books a trip with her friends to go Mexico, a girl’s trip, she says, but he knows her ring will come off the moment she gets there.

It doesn’t bother him. If anything it’s a…relief, maybe. He’s happy for her, happy that at least one of them can have what they want.

 

           While Tom and Sofie are operating on a hastily built wall of fake it until you make it, Lise moves around them, tickets stuck to the fridge, a new camera, drags Sofie shopping for dresses and swim wear, for pedicures and manicures and all of it with a smile on her face fit for someone ten years younger.

Sofie’s reaction to it all is a bit humorous at least, exasperated and fond, a few new purchases of her own, forced into her arms by one overly happy and probably still feeling a little guilty, mother.

Not that she has any reason to feel guilty, but Tom can understand that Lise feels it anyway, he did, a bit, when he first thought he might have to move out and Sofie would be stuck in the middle; caught between them.  
  
They celebrate her birthday with a quiet dinner, a few more presents than normal, Lise definitely feeling guilty.

Sofie entertains her, thanking her for the gifts even though Tom knows most of the clothes and shoes will get shoved into the back of closet. They catch a movie afterwards, cake when they get home, and as the night ticks on, Lise yawns, excuses herself to bed, pressing a kiss to Sofie’s cheek and then to Tom’s before she leaves.

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, a want to watch a movie maybe, or, even just a shift closer to press against his side. But Sofie fiddles with the hem of her shorts, her hoodie covering her stiff posture on the other end of the couch.

“Theo and Grace are having a party for me Friday,” she says quietly.

“Alright,” he frowns; wants to catch her ankle and drag her closer.

For a moment he doesn’t remember why she’s only telling him and not Lise, but then Lise will be gone Thursday, so he’ll be the only one around.

Sofie picks a loose thread, eyes flicking over to him and then away.

She stands, a moment of indecision, her body stiff, her fingers twisting into her sweater sleeves.

“Alright.”

He feels stupid for expecting anything else. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  
Space between them. Whole leagues of it.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

  
            The music thumps through her chest, so loud it feels like it reverberates through her, pushing out like it’s her heart trying to break free from her body, thumping against her ribs.

Sarah says something beside her, pointing to the bar and then slipping through the crowd. Grace shrugs and laughs, her mini dress sparkling underneath the lights as she tucks her hand into Theo’s and Sofie’s and follows Sarah towards the crowded bar.

It’s kind of a dingy bar, filled with all ages, no bouncer at the door, no one to check I.D’s.

Sarah laughs, her arms folded against the counter as she leans forward, ordering drinks for their group. The bartender’s eyes move down, a smirk on his mouth before he starts mixing the drinks.

There’s a open section in the middle, bodies pressed tightly together, all limbs and hips, wandering hands. Sofie watches the crowd absently, ignores the guilt in her stomach at her lie. Half lie, she only said she was out with friends for her birthday, nothing else.

She just didn’t elaborate on the where.

So they’re here, in some kind of rundown bar, filled with people and loud music, too much alcohol, too young for the crowd. But they had said, let’s do something fun, something crazy, your only sixteen once.

 _Happy Sweet Sixteen Sofie_ , time to stop mopping over something that won’t ever happen.

Over someone who doesn’t want you.

So Sofie let Sarah dress her, let her do her hair and her makeup and apologise in her own way for how she acted three weeks ago, blurting Sofie’s lack of experience out with no regard to who was listening.

The dress is some tight cotton thing, a deep blue, fitted like a second skin, plain and easy, a simple form-fitting body con that even Sofie can admit looks half-way decent on her.

She doesn’t feel any different, not really, but the dress hugs her curves in a way she didn’t know she could look and she feels…pretty, she thinks, older; like someone who could be a different kind of girl for one night.

The girl who can dance and drink and party and just…have fun and not think about anything or anyone.

 

  
  
          The guy’s hands are heavy on her hips, his mouth moving over her neck, fingers inching lower, creeping towards her ass.

His hair is dark, his shoulders broad and Sofie closes her eyes, curls her hands around his shoulders and lets his hand spread wide, a firm grip as he says, heavy and hot over her ear: “You gonna come home with me?”

She’d be lying to say she doesn’t consider it, that she doesn’t for one brief moment imagine just getting the whole thing over with, doesn’t imagine letting this random older guy take her home while she pretends he’s someone else.

But she knows she won’t.

Knows she’d regret it, knows that the only person she actually wants won’t touch her at all, but that doesn’t change the way she feels.

Doesn’t change that she still can’t imagine anyone but him when she thinks about sex or slips her hands between her legs.

She doesn’t answer, the grip on her ass tightens, his body digging into hers, grinding low and dirty with the music; it’s all intuitive, Sofie thought she’d feel more uncomfortable, more awkward, but it’s a lot like sparring, predicting movements and meeting them, force for force.

The guy isn’t as tall as Tom, body not quite as thick, and his hands wrong; but it’s obvious he’s half hard, the bulge pressed against her is hot and solid every time his hips shift into her. It feels…good, great even, and Sofie winds her own hips to the thumping music, getting lost in the beat, in the heady warmth of the bar, all sweat and alcohol.

Her body moves in a shifting rhythm that makes his breath warmer and heavier, his mouth trailing her cheek as his hands grip onto her ass, both digging in, pulling her closer.

“Yeah, you are,” he grins, mouth next to hers, sliding over it. “Gonna come home with me and I’ll make you—”

His voice cuts off, body tearing away from hers, Sofie stumbles blinking, the music loud, the world a little unsteady, alcohol and heat, the lethargy of drinking and dancing making her reactions slow.

The guy’s on the ground, his nose bleeding, someone’s fist clenched tight into the front of his shirt, just under his neck—

“— _hands off my_ —” a crack of a punch, the guy struggles beneath the other man and through the music and dim lighting Sofie sees—

“Dad?”  
A heavy arm tilts back, muscles bunching, tendons flexing as his fist descends; Sofie stumbles forward, shock clearing her head.

“ _Dad_!”

“— _ing asshole_ —”

Either he ignores her or he doesn’t hear her over the thumping music, either way Sofie reaches out, but Tom brushes her off, his face filled with fury.

“He didn’t do anything!” Sofie cries, reaching out again, body shaking and mind still reeling, filled with fear and shock.

Another punch and Sofie glances up as the crowd shifts in her peripherals; Marcus pushing out, followed by a nervous looking Theo and Grace.

The guy beneath Tom flails out, catching his cheek with an uncoridinated fist. Tom looks like he barely felt it, the rage on his face obvious, features dark and heavy.

“Dad—Marcus, stop him!” Sofie steps closer, face twisted into anxious fear. “Nothing happened!”

Marcus moves forward, catching Tom’s fist, his words too low for Sofie to hear over the music, face lost in the dim lighting of the bar.

“I’ll sue you—” the guys chokes but Tom reaches into the guy’s pocket with one hand, the other arm over his chest, pinning him down. He pulls out a wallet, flicking through cards and pulling out an I.D.

In the shifting bar lights, Sofie watches his face twist, his lip curling into a snarl.

“—statutory, propositioning a minor, you want to threaten me right now?” his fist still tight, knotted and dragging the guys head up off the ground his voice low and all rolling, rough, unrestrained rage.

“I thought she was eighteen,” the guy cries out, Tom’s weight making his voice winded and forced.

“She look fucking eighteen to you, dipshit?” he snarls, and in the shifting crowd, the few paying attention to the fight taking place at the edge of the dance floor Tom stands, flipping the guy over with ease, handcuffs torn off his belt with a practiced motion. The click of the cuffs snapping around the guys wrists is sharp and bright.

“Ow, man, that’s too tight!”

“Tom,” Marcus warns as Tom hauls the guy up roughly, stumbling to get his feet under him.

Tom shoves him forward and Marcus takes over, pushing him along towards the front of the bar. “C’mon, asshole, walk.”

Marcus glances back at Tom, who’s looking over to Theo and Grace. "That Sarah girl is here too, said she was at the bar, last they saw.”

Tom nods, shouldering into the crowd, some of them stepping away from him, others seem indifferent to the fight, obviously not the first bar fight or arrest they’ve seen here.

Theo and Grace move toward her, their eyes a little wide, Grace’s hands unsteady.

“We’re in so much shit,” Theo groans. “How’d they know we were here?”

“Sof, I love your dad, but he is terrifying in cop mode,” she looks back to the crowd.

“You think he’s going to tell our parents?”

Sofie has no idea, still stumbling over the anger and hate on Tom’s face, over the way he looked actively trying to hurt someone.

 _I think I’m more concerned whether he’s going to kill this guy_ , she thinks, losing sight of him in the crowd.

“I don’t know,” she looks over the bar and searches for his dark hair, almost always the tallest guy in the room, she sees him, moments later, Sarah coming out of the crowd first, her eyes wide like the other three teenagers.

“We’re leaving,” he orders, not looking at Sofie at all.

It seems like Grace and Sarah feel the same, their arms crossing, holding themselves tightly, eyes downcast waiting for judgement before they start moving at his tone, heading towards the entrance.  
  
They spill out onto the sidewalk, music a dull thumping noise as the doors shut behind them. The air is warm, but the late night breeze cool. Sofie crosses her arms, suddenly much more aware of how small her dress really is.

“Dad,” Sofie tries again, her voice tight after yelling, after the pitch of talking over the music all night, after screaming at him; he says nothing, looking down towards the other car.

Marcus is at his car, the handcuffs in his hand, his face tight and imposing as he talks lowly to the guy Sofie had been dancing with.

Guy wipes his lips, blood smearing and Sofie winces, eyes shifting back to Tom who looks unconcerned about all of it.

The edges of the conversation float towards them, _sixteen, alcohol, minors_. The guy rubs his wrists, glancing over at the other group before turning and walking away.

  
“Theo, Grace,” he calls, and they shoot straight, sending Sofie a nervous look before they follow his call and move to his vehicle.

He holds the back door open and they pile in, casting one last look out before they disappear.

“Let’s go,” Tom orders and Sofie looks at Sarah, who’s blinking quickly, obviously still drunk and unsteady, while Sofie feels like adrenaline has left her bare and shockingly alert. “Now.”

The car ride is deafeningly silent, Sofie watches his profile in the shifting streetlights, the flexing jaw, the bruised cheekbone; fury obvious and staggering.

Sofie feels like she’s struggling to put the pieces together, aware of Sarah in the backseat, or Tom’s white knuckled grip on the wheel; but all she sees is his face as he hit someone for touching her, because that’s what he was snarling, wasn’t it? _Hands off my—_

My what?

She glances at him again, chewing worriedly on her lip, _my what_ , she thinks. What was he saying? The music too loud too hear, her own heart drumming, too deafening to make sense of all of it, alcohol slowing her perceptions. It all feels murky and slow before, then a rush off bright colours and sounds and emotions, and now raw nerves, everything magnified and exposed.

_My what?_

 

They pull up in front of Sarah’s house, Tom gets out and opens the back door, shoulders stiff, back straight as he leads Sarah to the front door.

Sofie half expects him to knock, to spill the whole evening to her parents, but all he does is wait for her to go inside, wait for the door to lock and then he’s turning and heading back to the car; looking like he does at work sometimes, all business and no emotion.

He doesn’t look at her, face impassive, it’s a short drive filled with more silence, so much of it that it feels like she’s gone deaf.

“Dad,” Sofie whispers, voice weak.

“Did you use a fake I.D?” it’s abrupt, the cop voice.

“No, we didn’t…they didn’t I.D us,” she says quietly.

“You have any idea how stupid—”

“It was just a bit of fun, I never—”

“Fun?” he growls, eyes flicking to her as they pull up in front of the house. He shuts the car off with an aggressive turn of the wrist. Keys tearing out of the ignition. “In Lower Manhattan?”

“It was just once—”

“It only takes once!” he snaps. “One moment, one step, one fucking drink—”

“I was careful!” Sofie knows she’s being too loud for the time of night, for the quiet of the street, but she doesn’t care, legs unsteady as she follows him up the steps, watching the tense line of his shoulders as the key scrapes into the lock.

“Caref—” he laughs humourlessly into the empty house. The door slams shut behind her, the house dark and empty. His voice angry like he grits out from between his teeth, stuck on his ribs. “That guy had his hands all over you!”

“So what?” she yells, voice inching higher. “What does it matter to you, huh? Why do you care, you haven’t even wanted to be around me in months!”

“Why do I care?” his eyebrows rise, like it’s such a stupid question he can’t believe she voiced it. “Why do I care that I get a call at two a.m. from an off duty cop who saw my sixteen year old daughter drinking underage—”

“What?” Sofie’s face twists. “Do you have cops watching me for you?”

“You grew up around cops, Sofie! You think half the fucking cops in New York don’t know who you are? How do you think I feel huh? Phone rings in the middle of the fucking night, a cop I barely know asking me if I know where you are, because hey, I think I just saw your daughter in fucking Lower Manhattan, half dressed, at some seedy fucking club.”

Sofie’s mouth snap shut, her skin prickling with awareness of her dress, the short line of it brushing her upper thighs, she turns heading to the kitchen, anger pushing a headache into hot pulses behind her eyes.

“I wasn’t drunk and I can wear whatever I fucking like.”

“Not somewhere like that!” he snaps, following her. “Goddamn it, Sofie. I know you think you’re tough, I know you can fight but your five foot one and a hundred pounds soaking wet, you’re a target enough without wearing—”

“Fuck you,” Sofie hisses yanking open the fridge. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“I know! I know it is.” He steps back, tugging a hand through his hair. “Fuck. That isn’t what—”

Sofie tears off the cap, swallowing the water.

He looks at her, half lit by the stove light, obviously still angry, his jaw clenching and unclenching.  
“Do you have any idea how old that guy was?”

Sofie looks down, eyes dropping, she can guess, she knew he was older, knew he was inappropriate, knew he was tall and dark haired and enough of an imitation that he caught her eye. “No.”

“Thirty, Sofie, he was fucking _thirty_ ,” he bites out, eyes heated when he looks at her.

“You’re what? Four days into sixteen and you—”

“Well, then he wasn’t old enough!” she snaps back, cheeks burning. “Too bad he wasn’t older, too bad he wasn’t—”

“Stop,” he growls, straightening, face closing off. “Don’t go there, Sofie.”

“Well why not? Four days into sixteen, just like you said,” she steps closer, legs wobbly from heels and adrenaline. “Sixteen and never been drunk, or high, or stupid. I’m always careful, I don’t drink or smoke or do drugs. So I went out and had fun, like I should, since I am _sixteen_.”

“So what were you going to do, huh? Let him take you home, let him—”

“Why not?” she shouts, glaring up at him, standing in the kitchen, her voice sharp and loud. “What does it matter, it’s my choice, my life, my body! I can kiss whoever I want, can fuck whoever—”

“Stop,” Tom steps back, a warning in his face. “Stop talking, right now.”

“Fuck you,” she whispers harshly following him closer, eyes burning. “I wanted you, I tried—”

“Sofie—” his eyes close, pulling in a long breath and holding it.

“You turned away. You can barely even look at me,” she swallows, her throat tight. “I know I was wrong. I get it. But you don’t get a say now, in who I kiss.”

He says nothing, breathing heavy, standing still and silent a step away. Sofie watches him, nearly willing him to say something. When he doesn’t, Sofie swallows past the pain in her throat and moves past him.

“I don’t get why you’re so mad when you—” His hand snaps out as she passes, catching her wrist, when she meets his eyes they are filled up with anger, his cheekbone clenching, unclenching as he swallows an emotion like an apology, something resounding beneath it.

“I’m fucking angry because everything I threatened to charge that guy with, everything I accused him of, is exactly what I could be guilty of,” his voice is rough and yet soft, a direct, exposed emotion she rarely sees from him.

“You understand?”

Her heartbeat pounds in her chest, his words echoing, beating in her mind, words shifting until she can grasp the meaning, to understand why he looks so ashamed, so furious even now.

“I thought—” she blinks, searches his eyes, looking up at him, the way he tilts just slightly over her, grey eyes open and honest.

“You _asshole_ ,” she hisses, yanking her wrist in anger, but he holds tight, keeping her there. “You let me think it was just me, do you have any idea how much I want—”

He surges forward, tugging her closer at the same time; a swooping motion and his mouth hits hers with a desperate force, Sofie feels her chest break with a noise as he hauls her up, arms heavy and warm around her, pulling her high and into his chest.

Her legs wrap around him on instinct and he makes a bitten off noise, his arms tightening.

Sofie sucks in a breath, her hands knotting into his hair and pulling him closer. He turns his head, lips turning over her jaw, a scrape of teeth, something like a kiss, but infinitely more desperate as he presses his face into her neck; his voice heavy and rough with emotion.

“ _God-fucking-damn it_ , Sofie,” another desperate rough pass of his mouth over her pulse like he’s desperate for her skin.

Sofie’s legs clench tighter around his sides, her nails scraping his scalp, pulling his head back.

She presses her mouth to his, no idea what she’s doing, only that his grip around her floods her body with want for more, that the way he grips onto her like he can’t imagine letting her go, even though it’s more hug than anything else makes her insides heat and twist all at once; an ache for more, all impatient.

Her back hits the wall behind them, her mouth opening at the impact, like he lost balance and tilted into it.

His body heavy, holding her against the wall as his arms loosen, his hands heavy over her sides, slipping lower. His head tilts, mouth moving heavier, kissing her hard, Sofie lets him take over, trying to follow along, unconcerned with anything but the feel of him against her, the hunger in how he kisses her stealing her breath.

His hands slide to her hips, to her ass, gripping on, like he can wipe the touch memory of the other guy from her, from his own mind.

Her breath hitches, lower body shifting into his, pressing against his waist, held too high in his arms to feel what she wants to fe Sof. Wants to know what he feels like pressed against her like that guy at the club had been.

Sofie whines high in her throat, squirming.

His hands tense, squeezing harder, one of his hands slipping up her thigh, over bare skin, her dress hiked up just barely covering her ass; a noise in his throat, his mouth hungrier and Sofie turns her head, trying to breathe, not knowing how to kiss like this.

Tom’s mouth presses over her jaw, down to her throat, teeth scraping her pulse, worrying skin before dragging into his mouth on a harsh suck.

Sofie groans, body twitching as the feeling runs through her.

“ _Dad_ ,” she gasps, her hands twisting into his hair.

He freezes, And Sofie thinks only—

“Shit,” he curses, voice torn.

 _Shit_. Sofie thinks, despair flooding her, cursing her mouth, her own stupid tongue.

Tom turns, a step, two and her bottom hits the island, his hands slip over her thighs, heavy and warm, as wide as she dreamed they would be, slipping over her skin with a slow drag of slightly rough palms.

Sofie locks her legs, thighs clenching, and she doesn’t think she imagines the way his body twitches.

“Sof—” he groans, face buried in her neck. “Please.”

She wants to say no, wants to grip tighter; wants to cling onto him and demand he touch her, do something, anything with her.

His fingers reach back to her knees, a gentle force and Sofie has a second more of indecision, of petulant no, but unlocks her knees when he pulls harder, urging.

She lets them fall lower, so he’s just standing between them; Tom straightens, hands lifting off her knees to cup her cheeks in warm palms.

His eyes shift over hers, just looking, like he’s trying to remember her, trying to etch her in his mind, trying to find something in her eyes.  
  
“It’s not just you, Sof," he breathes it over her mouth, a careful, quiet honesty he is not used to showing; but he doesn’t, can’t, won’t tolerate Sofie thinking that she’s done something wrong, that she’s alone in this…this uncertain, unstable, depraved thing lingering between them. “I thought you knew…I thought it was obvious that I—”

His eyes flicker down to her mouth, and without a thought he brushes the flat pad of his thumb over the kissed plump of her lips. Always a full pouty thing, he can’t help but press harder, the pad of his thumb parting her lips slightly, the tip touching sharp teeth and brushing over them.

His cock is already aching, but fuck if it doesn’t twitch for the sight of his thumb emerging wet, dragging spit over her lips, slicking them shinier, lips hot beneath his touch, swollen from his own mouth.

Sofie looks at him, pupils wide and eyes dark with want, a ring of green still obvious in the shadows; her eyes shift to his mouth, back to his eyes. He knows what she’s thinking, doesn’t need her to speak to know she’s asking him to kiss her again.

And again. And again.

So he does, once. A soft thing; presses his mouth to hers and enjoys the way her spine arcs, the way she inhales against his mouth, doesn’t need to ask if these were her first kisses, he knows it was. That the way she moves carefully, the way her lips are slow to move but eager for more…

He thinks it should bother him more than it does right now.

Her hands tighten in his shirt, knotting over his shoulers, arms tightening to pull him closer, an urge to give in runs through him, mind spinning images of pushing her back over the counter, stripping her bare and showing her exactly what he can do with his mouth—

He pulls away, breaking the kiss, the hesitant way she was kissing back, far too sweet, far too innocent for him to even considering the things he is.

When he steps back Sofie’s eyes flicker down, and the flush that spreads across her face is devastatingly endearing.

He doesn’t need to look down to know the bulge in the front of his pants is obvious and unavoidable.

Sofie slips off the counter, her eyes flicking down again, Tom oddly feels like he should be embarrassed, being so caught in his arousal, so unmistakably hard. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, a slow wet drag that makes him want to copy the move his own mouth.

“It’s late,” he says quietly. “You should go to bed.”

She opens her mouth, and he doesn’t know if he has the willpower to deny her anything she asks.

“Please, Sofie.”

Her mouth shuts and she’s silent, eyes looking over his face before she nods, another heart beat before she moves.

Tom counts to twenty, eyes closing, waits for her footsteps to fade, for her bedroom door to shut…  
  
In the silent house Sofie hears his footsteps on the stairs, the bathroom door down the hall, the shower starts and Sofie bites her lip, turns her head into her pillow, fingers sinking through the wet mess of her underwear, sinking into herself and making her hips twitch, her body shiver—

 

  
           Tom presses his palms against the tiles, closes his eyes, fingers curling, telling himself not to—

He leans forward, hot forehead against cold, wet tile, barely wraps a hand around himself, barely has time to picture her, to lick the taste of her mouth from his before he’s coming, a bitten off name behind his teeth.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter for now, I'll.put more up in a few days!


	7. Chapter 7

 

* * *

Chapter VII

* * *

 

 

 

 

            The dream shatters; broken apart by a ringing noise bouncing around his skull. It gets louder, sharper, and then reality returns bundled in cotton and warmth—

And he’s horizontal, blinking into the pale light of pre-dawn.

The trilling comes again.

His hand smacks the table, searching for his phone, grabbing it up and blindly moving his finger over the call button.

“Graydon,” he grits out, voice sleep-rough.

_“Good morning, sunshine.”_

“Baylor, I swear t’god—”

 _“Hey now, I come bearing good news,”_ she says into his ear and Tom can _hear_ the smirk in her voice, the creak of her chair as she tilts back.

“You better,” he grunts, sitting up and scrubbing his eyes before checking the clock;  _520a.m._

He bites back a groan, less than two hours of sleep; he scrubs a hand through his hair, the night coming back in chunks, images of—

_(Dad—)_

_“I’ve got some dead criminals for you today_ ,” Baylor continues, pleased. “ _So now you head on out to Timothy’s and you get me a bagel with half a pound of cream cheese and I’ll share this lovely stack of files I’ve got right here waiting for you.”_

 _Holy shit,_ he thinks.

“It’s _five_ in the morning,” he grumbles, but his feet hit the floor anyway, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he pulls on clothes, glad he showered last night because he—

 _(Thighs clenching, pulling him closer)_.

“ _Never too early for cream cheese_ ,” she laughs. “ _Now get that big ass body of yours out the door and come feed me, or I pass these deceased degenerates off to Rinon.”_

“Why don’t you feed yourself  _before_  work?”

“ _Because that’s work, Thomas, darling, and it’s five a.m. I don’t think clearly until six,_ ” she drawls, her chair creaking again. “ _So come on, feed me and I’ll exchange some photographic favours for bagels.”_

He huffs a laugh, “I’ll see you in twenty.”

He ends the call before she can answer, stuffing it into his pocket and pulling on a shirt, rolling the sleeves, knowing the summer heat of the city is muggy and heavy even before midday.

It isn’t until he passes Sofie’s door that he thinks again about—

 _(A hitch of a breath against his mouth_ —)

His foot hesitates on the stairs, caught between turning back and continuing on.

 _I’ll text her,_ he thinks,  _in a few hours when she wakes up._

 

            In the car, on the drive to the precinct he has to go over cases in his mind, facts and numbers and names and dates and anything, _anything_ other that the sound, the memory, the _idea_ of the girl he isn’t—

 _Can’t_ think about.

 

Not yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            “Bagel, a pound of cream cheese,” Tom drops the bag on her desk, a coffee beside it. “Why’d you get the call anyway? I asked Mercer to send me calls on any known criminals.”

“Well, a little birdy told him that you were chasing a wayward daughter last night,” Baylor inhales her coffee, her eyes closing.

Tom rubs his temple. “How many little birdies?”

“Oh, you know cops,” she says lightly. “Better let Sofie know she’s been ratted.”

“She knows,” he sighs.

“Speaking of,” she starts, her eyes flicking over his body. “You look like shit.”

He snorts, shifting up from his lean on her desk, heading back around to his side. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you chase wayward daughters down to Ardour at two a.m.”

_And then kiss—_

_Fuck. Don’t think about it._

“ _Oosh_ ,” Baylor winces. “Ardour? That’s rough.”

Tom shifts his eyebrows up and then back down like,  _yeah, you think?_

“She okay?”

_Other than the fact that I molest—_

_Fuck._

He thinks he might be freaking out a little, his heart skips a beat in his chest, a flicker of something over his body like a missed step. Like that slow-motion, tripping plunge to the ground.

“Yeah,” he forces out. “You know Sofie doesn’t really appreciate being told what to do.”

_Or being told no after—_

Baylor nods and then laughs, “But _fuck_ if I’m not glad my kids are done with that shit. Remember when Noah—”

_After I kissed her._

_Attacked her._

_Fuck._

He remembers the urgency in him, the bright, spilling  _need_  he felt when Sofie had looked up at him, stuck in the moonlit kitchen and said  _I thought it was just me,_  the force in which he kissed her terrifies him and for a moment he’s terrified that he imagined it, that he—

_Did she even kiss back?_

_Jesus fucking Christ_ , he thinks, _did she kiss back?_

“Be right back,” he chokes out, shoving back from his desk; Baylor’s story cutting off as Tom cuts a path to the bathroom, and lets the door to the bathroom bang shut behind him. Leaning over the sink, he inhales the damp, porcelain cold smell beneath him, focusing on the shine of the lights above him but seeing—

( _Dad—_ )

He splashes cold water on his face, Sofie’s flushed face beneath his eyelids, the way her hands felt, scratching into his scalp, how sweet she tasted, how—

_God, she felt perf—_

“Fuck,” he spits, tearing off paper towel and wiping his face. “ _Fucking fuck.”_

His hand is on his phone and thumb hanging over her message screen before he stops himself, staring at the little photo of her on her text squares.

The phone locks with a click, screen going black as he stuffs it back in his pocket. What could he say anyway? What’s the etiquette on interacting with your sixteen-year-old stepdaughter after…after making out with her at three a.m. and—

_(The thump of the wall, mouth open, body quivering—)_

His eyes flick to his reflection in the mirror, the rough state of his shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled, hair mussed… He looks like he’s been up all night on a case and hasn’t seen his bed in a day. He sighs, trying to quell the unsettled, quiver in his stomach, the one questioning his sanity, his memory, his mind—

_(The squirming, needy roll of her body, her hands pulling his face up, her lips—)_

Arousal flows, mind caught on a loop of his own thumb pressing against her lip, the look in her eyes right before he kissed her.

“ _Fuck_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Sofie wakes at nine, her mind empty and blank; the night rushes back and she bites her lip, smile spreading. She lets out a breathy laugh into the quiet, sunlit air above her bed. Turning her face into the pillow and laughing again.

“Oh my _God_ ,” she laughs, her voice muffled into cotton, caught up in joy.  _Amazing_ , she thinks. _Oh my God._

She slips out of bed, her thighs sticky as she stands, her world a little unsteady from the late night, traces of alcohol and...and  _oh my God,_  she laughs again, from euphoria and joy, from his hands on her thighs, on her face, on her  _ass._

Sofie scrunches her face, smile uncontrolled, biting back another laugh, a rising urge to squeal like she’s seen girls do over cute celebrities. Sucking in a breath, she heads into her bathroom, starting the shower and lets the hot water peel off the stickiness still lingering between her thighs.

 _God,_  she thinks.  _He felt amazing, that was amazing, and_ kissing _—_

She laughs again into the steam of the shower, dumps conditioner into her hands and can’t stop the images from rolling on; the width of his shoulders, the muscles beneath, how wide her legs had to spread for him to fit between them. How easily he engulfs her. How…amazing it was to hear him groan into her mouth just from touching her.

She bites her lip, heart-rate picking up; imagines what would have happened if she hadn’t been stupid and said  _Dad_  instead of  _Tom_ ; wonders if he would have pulled her dress up more, if he would have sunk his fingers into her or more—

Sofie can’t help but imagine it; that bulge she saw in the half dark, a voice in the back of her head,  _big hands, big—_

It’s not like she’s never seen one before, the internet is a vast space and girls like to share. Stories, photos, elaborate retellings of their own experiences. Not all always good, some stories in the change rooms about a disappointing end to a date, or a boyfriend who lacks skill or… well, she remembers Kate’s crooked finger, her lower lip pushed out in a pout,  _so not worth my time._

She can feel her cheeks burn, weirdly embarrassed about spending so long thinking about what his dick would look like, but she can’t help it, the dreams that fill her up, the fantasies that make her spine arc are all about  _him.._

The shower beats down on her shoulders; teeth sinking into her lip as she wonders if he did the same thing she did last night, if the way he kissed her, all heavy and hungry left him as achy and wanting as she was.

Did he touch himself the way she touched herself? Does he think about her the way she thinks about him?

She runs a hand over her belly, looking down over her body, over the small curves of her breasts, nothing like some girls, nothing like her mother’s—

She winces, pulling away from the thought, not wanting to think about them together.

Her fingers scratch lightly over her hip, bones less obvious than a year ago, muscles and fat filling her out; she wonders what she looks like to him, what he sees when he looks at her…if he ever sees her body and wants her or is it only because she’s Sofie, Sof, his _Sof_.

Is the second one better? Probably, she thinks,  _but_ …

Tom is…a  _man,_  Sofie thinks. So tall and broad and just… something you’d find in Men’s Health, too much for the real world.

And she’s…

Her fingers brush over the soft skin of her sex, kept bare for years, something she’s done since Trafalgar and all the girls started talking about periods and then boys and then sex and their bodies.

She bites her cheek, worrying skin.

Will he like what he sees?

She’s seen the girls that flirt with him, the looks he gets…Hell, she knows what her mother looks like. And Sofie is just… _Sofie_. All elbows and knees, a potty mouth who can be rude without meaning to, who fights more than she should, who likes cotton and sneakers and has like, two pairs of slightly lacy underthings.

What if he doesn’t like her body?

 _But he was hard_ , a voice reminds her.  _You saw it._

She cups her breasts, a handful for her, which is nothing compared to his hands.

_God, what if he doesn’t?_

She’s shutting off the taps with a metallic squeak, wrapping herself in a towel and dripping over the soft rug in front of her sink. Her palm squeaks over the glass and she leans forward, meeting green and pink, skin flushed from the shower.

In the tilt of her head, she catches sight of red, pulls the wet tendril of her hair away from her neck and touches—

(His teeth worrying skin, tongue hot and then—)

“I have a hickey,” her voice sounds loud in the quiet, breaking apart her solitude. “From my dad.”

She drops her head into her hands, laughing.

“From Tom,” she hears her own voice letting loose a  _dad_ filled with want for more. “Tom.  _Tom._ ”

It’s odd saying it aloud, has thought it in her head, held the name on her tongue when she touches herself, but she’s never said it aloud, never imagined she actually  _could_.

“Tom.”

It’s  _weird._

“Dad. Tom.”

She licks her lips, the words in her throat. “Daddy.”

Her cheeks flush remembers Kate’s voice in the change rooms.  _Oh, Daddy._

Why does that sound so dirty? Sofie used to call him Daddy.

Okay, when she was like six, but  _still_.

“Daddy. Dad. Tom. Ugh,” Sofie touches the mark on her neck again, the memory of his mouth running through her. “ _Tom_.”

Maybe she could mix the two together. Tad, Dom—

Well, that’s  _worse._

“Fucking fuck,” she drops her head back, sighing. “Tom.”

She tells herself to get used to it because obviously  _dad_  is a not something he wants to hear when his hands are on her ass.

“Right, get it together, Graydon,” she looks at herself in the mirror. “One problem at a time.”

First problem, making sure he’s going to touch her again.

Second, not calling him Dad during any said touching.

Sofie heads back into her room, heading to her closet when her cellphone beeps on her side table, making her jolt a little at the sudden noise.

 

 

 

> T: _morning, got called in, should be home by dinner, you ok?_

 Her shoulders sag, one hand knotted in her towel.  _Got called in._

 

 

 

> S: _I’m_

Sofie pauses, thumbs hovering.  _I’m what?_ Thrilled, worried, anxious, turned on, curious…

 

 

 

> _S:_ I’m great, you?

She groans,  _so lame, Sofie._

 

 

 

> T: _good, we’ll talk when I get home._

She isn’t really sure what she expects him to say, or even what she wants him to say, but  _talk_  isn’t really what she had in mind.

 

 

 

> S: _yeah ok_

She tells herself to not worry, that stressing will make everything worse, but…

Did he actually get called in? Or did he leave because of what happened? What if he regrets it and he’s going to tell her it can’t happen again? What if he wants to wait until she’s eighteen? What if he decides she’s not worth the risk? What if he…

“One problem at a time,” she reminds herself, moving to the closet and grabbing the first t-shirt and shorts her hands touch.

She knots her hair into the towel, reaching for her phone to text Grace.

 

 

 

 

> S: _you awake?_

 

 

 

 

> G _: barely. You dead?_

She snorts, before texting back,  _nope, still breathing.  
_

 

 

 

> G: _thought you’d be off to the nunnery_

Sofie laughs, can practically see Grace still in bed, all groggy and hung over.

 

 

 

> S: _not yet. He’s at work, so_
> 
> G: _talk later kind of thing?_
> 
> S: _yeah_
> 
> G: _I’ll keep my fingers crossed, I don’t feel like finding a new BFF_
> 
> S: _so sweet_
> 
> G: _don’t think I’d look good in those black robes. Actually neither would you._
> 
>  S: _he’s not going to send me to a nunnery_
> 
> G: _you sure? Cause it seemed like he was pissed._

Sofie thinks about his face, the bunching, shifting of his back and shoulders beneath his shirt as he... _pummeled_  a guy for touching her. 

_(His hands were all over you!)_

She flops back on the bed, smile spreading as quick as the memory, heat, rush, _thill_ through her body does.

She types:  _He was—_  and then watches the cursor blink,  _He was—_

_Jealous?_

She laughs, joy a burst of warmth in her belly.  _Jealous. He was jealous._

 

 

 

> S: He was mad, but more like worried, you know
> 
> G: Yeah. You think he’s going to tell our parents?
> 
> S: No. he could’ve told Sarah’s last night and he didn’t. Did Marcus say anything?
> 
> G: Just that we should know better and that it wasn’t safe and that we shouldn’t be drinking, was pretty chill tho, considering.
> 
> G: considering?
> 
> S: I thought your dad was gonna break that guys face
> 
> S: me too
> 
> G: lol, I know you hate hearing it, but Sof, seriously, he was kinda hot

_Don’t I know it._

Sofie blows out a breath, Tom’s shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the guy's shirt, the easy strength he had in flipping the guy over to cuff him; it fissures through her, a flash of warmth that pools low in her stomach.

 

 

 

> S: it was something, that’s for sure
> 
> G: going to shower, txt you in a bit

Sofie drops her phone on the bed, stretching out, mind rolling thoughts, watching the sunlight stream in from the windows.

 _Be home by dinner,_ his text said. She sits up, checking the time and when she sees ten thirty glowing back at her, she deflates a little; _how am I going to kill eight hours?_

Her stomach growls, as if in answer to her question.

 _Good enough place to start,_ she thinks; slipping off her bed and heading downstairs.

She makes a peanut butter and banana smoothie before turning on the radio to fill the silence of the empty house. Sofie boosts herself up onto the stool and stares hard at the spot they were the night before. Nearly feels like there should be some sign, a plaque, something memorialising what happened there last night.

 

_First kiss._

_Hopefully not last kiss._

 

 

 

The microwave glows: ten forty-five.

_God damn it._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Marcus drops him off, his limbs loose, mind a little hazy, everything distant and unimportant as he makes his way into the quiet, half-dark house.

He toes off his shoes, reaching for his tie before he remembers he isn’t wearing one and heads into the study, mind a little absent, thinking only about another drink and ignoring everything else.

The liquid sloshes into the tumbler but a noise behind him cuts through his focus and he turns to see Sofie, her face tight and arms crossed, standing by the door and looking far too lovely for him to ignore.

“Hey,” he knocks the drink back, feeling it burn his throat and slide icy hot into his stomach as he looks at her. It shouldn’t even be anything, he’s seen her in pyjamas a thousand times, slept beside her in them a thousand times more. But now he knows what she feels like pressed up against him, knows what she feels like under his hands…

“It’s ten pm,” she bites out, mouth tight.

“I know,” he licks the taste of alcohol off his lips, considers pouring another, turning his hazy world into a blur of movement, of abstraction; some uncoordinated, un-reality where he doesn’t have to deal with the fact that he is  _in_   _love_  with his stepdaughter, daughter, _sixteen-year-old kid._

It was all a lot easier to do at the bar, when Sofie was a missed text message and not standing, half naked in pyjamas and waiting for him because last night he kissed her. Because last night he touched her. Because fuck if he doesn’t want to peel her out of her clothes and just…do it all again.

“Where were you?”

He moves forward, Sofie stands rooted, head tilting up as he gets closer.

She’s such a small thing, he’s always been amazed by her, caught up in her, ever since she was that little thing on the stairs waiting for him to find her.

He’s loved her for so long that this seems so… so _natural_. even though he knows,  _knows_ , that he shouldn’t, that he should figure out a way to dissuade her, how easily he could hurt her to push her away—

He should, he thinks. He _should._

But he can’t imagine it. Can’t imagine ever denying her anything. Even this.

Sofie looks up at him and Tom feels his hands rising before he even tells them to; cups her cheeks, turning her head up more. Her eyes hold anger, but her mouth holds sadness, a soft little pout caught in her bottom lip.

God, he fucking loves her.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes it over her forehead, leaning down to press his mouth to her skin, a slow touch. “Don’t be mad.”

“You said dinner,” her voice is quiet; wounded in a way that pulls at his ribs.

“I know,” he says again, his mouth moving lower, leaning further to press a kiss to her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. He straightens when her mouth parts, a soft little exhale that brushes his neck.

Her face, when he can focus on it and not just her lips, is open, clear-cut from something precious, filled with a quiet hurt in the shadow beneath the fan of her eyelashes; but more than that, a flush of want that leaves her pink-touched and so sweet it hurts.

His thumb brushes her bottom lip, wants to pull more out of her; wants to watch that flush chase the hurt, wants to pull her into his body and—

_Fuck it._

He ducks down, obviously catching her off guard because she doesn’t even try to stop him when he hauls her up, shifting her up high and over his shoulder; ignoring her squawk of protest as he heads up the stairs, one hand on her thighs, holding her still.

“What are you  _doing_?” her fingers knot into the back of his shirt, trying to right herself from hanging upside down. “Dad!”

 _Shit,_ he’s going to have to get used to that, isn’t he?

He all but tosses her on the bed, Sofie bounces, her back hitting it and her breath coming out in a little  _oof;_ she looks up at him, her lips parted, eyes wide and a little dark with—

Wishes he didn’t know her face so well that he knows _exactly_ what she’s thinking about.

Even though he _shouldn’t._

He touches her ankle, wrapping his hand around it, slipping it over her calf; his eyes moving up her body. Thighs, cotton shorts, her shirt soft and old, caught beneath her body and teasing the curve of her hip. 

“I’m going to shower and then we’re going to sleep,” he forces out straightening up.

Her mouth opens, but he says it again, heavier; no room for argument. “Just  _sleep._ ”

 

 

            Sofie watches him head into the hall, lets out a little curse as her head drops back to the mattress; and then, realising where she is, the smell of his soap or cologne or whatever it is, lingers on the sheets beneath her and—

 _Oh damn_.

She rolls off the bed, heading to her own bathroom to do her teeth and wash her face before heading back into his room and then stopping, caught between wanting to get back in and not being sure if she  _should._

_But he said we’re going to sleep, right? As in two. Both of us. Together._

_We do this all the time,_ she tells herself, _stop being stupid._

She crawls back in, slipping under the covers, and then after another moment of doubt, peels the shorts off from her legs and drops them on the floor beside the bed; normally only sleeps in underwear anyway and she certainly isn’t going to wear  _more_  clothing in bed with him.

            In the shower Tom breathes in humid air and struggles with his morals/mind/shame for a moments only before he gives in to the urge, needing to take the edge off the growing, unavoidable  _want_  that’s been lingering since he woke up (since bed the night before. Since the first impact of their mouths.)

Loosened by alcohol his mind spins images of curling his fingers around the band of her sleep shorts, pulling them down, chasing her shifting hips with his mouth, listening to her breath hitch, sinking lower and finding out how sweet she tastes, how loud he can make her voice break before he even gets his tongue inside of her.

It doesn’t take long, his grunt fades into the pulse of the shower the way his cum sinks down the drain, faded by white noise.

Unfortunately, it does little to temper the low curl of desire in him, the one that knows Sofie’s waiting for him in his bed.

 

 

            Sofie bites her cheek, her thighs tightening, thinking only this may be a terrible idea—

He’s shirtless, scrubbing his hair with a towel, stomach flexing, loose cotton pants low on his hips; that heavy ‘v’ of muscle she’d like to touch—

Lick. Bite. Rub all up on…

It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, not really, but knowing that she  _gets_  to look, that she could, possibly,  _hopefully,_ touch… it’s all a bit too much and she can feel her cheeks flush.

There’s a heavy, thick line between his legs, and  _that_  she knows is something she hasn’t seen outside of fantasy and shadow.

Tom moves further into the room and brings soap and warmth and wet skin in with him. But when he catches sight of her shorts on the floor, he sends her a look filled up with something she no name for but  _strained_.

“Please tell me you have something else on.” His eyes close and Sofie can’t help but notice that thick outline is a little more obvious.

She nods, swallowing the uptick of her pulse at the gravel in his voice.

He lifts the covers only enough to slip underneath them, sinking down beside her, his body hot, still a bit damp, sending a jagged heat through her as stretches out on his side, leaning on one elbow to look down at her.

His hand rises; a second, barely-there hesitation, and he’s brushing a piece of hair off her forehead, fingers rough and warm, skimming her cheek. Grey eyes shift minutely, flicking over her face.

“Where were you?” she asks, brows sinking together, nerves tripping in her chest.

“Drinking,” his thumb brushes her cheekbone, eyes following the path. “Too much, probably.”

“Why?”

“I might be freaking out a little,” he says lowly, mint warm, a flicker of humour like he’s trying to make light of it.

“Oh,” Sofie exhales, disappointment rising. “Are you still?”

His thumb brushes over her lips, eyes dark as presses just a little harder on her bottom lip; he leans down, the heat of his body pushing warmth, proximity and electricity. Sofie barely breathes as his lips touch hers, his thumb between them.

“Yes,” the words shift lips over thumb, just barely touching hers. “A little.”

“Why?” she whispers, her heart pounding; all of her nerves lighting up on that one brief contact between their lips.

A puff of laughter before Tom shifts back and Sofie has to clench her hands into the covers to stop herself from reaching out to drag him back down. To demand a kiss like they had last night, or a slower one. A lesson, all measured; honey smooth to show her how.

His thumb brushes heavy along her jaw, palm slipping over her neck, eyes following; she knows the moment he sees the red mark on her neck. He stiffens, hand pausing in its path over her throat.

“ _Shit_ ,” he exhales; his voice strained.

Her hand darts out, wrapping around his wrist, clamping on; feeling the flexing tense of his muscles and shifting bone beneath her palm.

“Don’t freak out,” she whispers, voice something near desperate. “Please.”

His eyes are fixed on the hickey. “It’s all so fucked up, Sof.”

Something torn passes over his face, but then his thumb brushes the mark left by his mouth and his breath catches.

“It’s not—”

His eyes seem to reluctantly move away from the mark, rising slowly, meeting hers, filled with something heated, something that makes her stomach clench; a naked want. It catches in her blood and Sofie feels her body responding; the feeling caught between them, locked in on eyesight.

“Fuck,” Tom curses and his hand sinks around the back of her neck, long fingers bumping over the top of her spine.

Sofie barely has time to register the way his thumb brushes her jaw, tilting her head up before his lips brush hers.

She inhales, but it’s caught and desperate, her hand sliding up his arm, over the thick of bicep and the tense of his shoulder; scratching into the hair at the back of his neck.

“ _Please_ ,” she whispers and has no idea what she’s even asking for. Only that it’s not enough, not anywhere near _half_.

 

 

            The world shrinks; becomes the beating tick of her jugular beneath his palm, the green of her eyes burning into his and every last small inch of her side pressed against his body; thirty-five years old and he’s never felt so undone by a _mouth_.

Her fingernails are short and sharp, pressed into his skin as her arm tightens, pulling his head down lower.

The world exists solely on that pink, sweet—

Kiss to the corner of his mouth. Achingly soft, catches in his chest like she’s coating him in molasses, slowing the world down.

His fingers slip over her the top notches of her spine, the back of her neck, up into her hair.

Another, just as sweet a little farther onto his lips; six months ago he turned his head—

Sofie parts her mouth, lips soft, damp from the air between them, a quiet little inhale and—

Another kiss, less sweet; too full of want to be anything innocent.

This is not a question: her nails dig in, their mouths part; his fingers curl into her hair holding her head still, angling his own to kiss her harder, to soak up a little more of that fading innocence and drag them both into something irreparable.

Sofie’s mouth is unsure, but her hunger tastes desperate, her hand sinking into his hair, twisting into damp, dark brown while her other hand slips up over his chest, over his shoulder, like she can soak up his skin, curving around the back of his neck pulling him down lower.

Undone by her boldness, by her mouth; knowing she’s never done this before and is still so—

So—

He groans into her mouth, can’t catch the noise, a tense, wanting, _fucking terrified_ feeling surging up his stomach as Sofie pulls him closer. Tom braces his arm more on the bed beside her head and curves his upper body over her, hand spreading wide over her jaw and neck, the other knotting into her hair, taking over the kiss, opening her mouth wider, licking into it, caught up in the heat of her chest pressing into his, just that thin cotton shirt between them.

Sofie turns her head, gasping for a breath, “I don’t know what I’m doing—”

 _It’s alright,_ he mutters, mouthing at her jaw, thumb pressing into her cheek to turn her head back, bringing her mouth back to his, wanting more. Needing more. “I’ll show you.”

Thirty-five years and never been so fucking undone by a _mouth_.

He reigns himself in, _tries tries_ …ignoring the throb of his cock, keeping his hips pressed into the bed and not on her thigh. Shifts just a little higher, needing space between his chest and hers, needs to remind himself to keep his hands on her face, curled into her hair, to not trace her neck, her clavicle, to not seek out cotton and drag it down over the trembling warmth of her chest, to not cup a hand over her breast, to not see if her nipples are as pink and sweet as her lips are.

“Fuck, Sofie,” he kisses her once more, all hard and hungry and  _taking_  before he pulls back and slows it down. He kisses her, nearly chaste, then warmer, tongue slipping briefly into her mouth before easing off.

Sofie copies the movement, her tongue slow and cautious.

A deeper stroke, his tongue brushing hers before he backs off and lets her do the same to him. Sofie’s breath hitches when his teeth scrape her bottom lip, her body shifting, arms tightening like she can barely hold herself still.

“D-” she presses their mouths together again, lips sliding together, and they’ve always learnt well together, always been so attuned to the other that lessons became laughter, became sparring so quickly.

And it’s no different now; Sofie nips over his jaw bone, a kiss to his cheek, her breathing heavy before she moves back to his mouth.

It’s wide and deep, too dirty to be at all innocent; a thing for  _fucking_ , not for this.

His hand clenches in her hair, her chest hitching, her own knotting harder; a reflex to give as good as she gets. It feeds between them; tongue and teeth and a boundless, hot hunger. He sinks down as Sofie arches up against him, her heart thudding against his. He shifts, not thinking, caught on the feel of her, on the low thrum of alcohol still in him, on the drug she apparently is.

His cock nudges her thigh and—

He tears away from her, rolling off and up; his feet hit the floor and Tom closes his eyes, breathing hard.

“ _Shit_ ,” he curses, rough-edged. “Shit, I shouldn’t have d—”

“Why’d you stop?” she whines, and the bed shifts behind him until he feels her body pressing against his. Sofie kneels, curving her body over his back, chest warm against his spine, her arms winding over his shoulders, linking around his neck like she did when she was younger for a piggy—

 _Fuck_.

“D—” she cuts off, another aborted  _Dad_ , he knows; the word corrosive in his stomach.

Her cheek is hot as it presses into his shoulder, her voice hesitant, puffing against his neck. “Did I do something wrong?”

 _Yes,_ he thinks, _yes, you did. Do. Are._

_You’re a fucking temptation._

“No, not even close,” he sighs, looking down at his lap, the heavy, thick line of his cock is obvious in the cotton pants.  _Not even a little._

Sofie shifts again, her mouth touching the side of his neck, lips hot and damp; Tom pulls away, hands heavy and quick to untangle her hold, stands abruptly and heads for the door.

“Dad—” her voice is so fucking  _young,_  he thinks. “Shit, I mean—”

“Just give me a minute, Sof.”

In the hallway of a home he bought with his  _wife,_  in the hallway of a quiet home built for three of them, in a bathroom staring at his reflection, hands tight on the sink.

“Fuck,” he bites out, shoving his pants down with one hand, wrapping a hand around his cock; fantasies spilling, filled up how she felt beneath him, how perfect her mouth is, how much he wants to peel her out of her clothes and just fucking  _touch_  her. And taste her, _everywhere_.

He comes, no mind to drag it out, feeling frayed and undone; a bittered edge of shame in his spine for being so weak as he cleans himself off and wipes his hand.

 

 

            Sofie touches her lips with her hand, feeling the kiss-swollen heat in them. The door opens and Tom moves back in, his face blank, but his eyes moving over her and watching her fingers.

The bed shifts as he stretches back out beside her; catching her wrist, pressing his own lips to her fingers, before curling his hand into hers, his body nudging her until she rolls onto her side.

He shifts away only for a second and the light on his table clicks off, plunging them into darkness before he’s pressing tighter against her, his arm heavy over her, their fingers linking and tucking against her stomach.

But her body is still flushed with arousal, a low humming thing, she can’t ignore, but she swallows the wants, wishes, fantasies down and eases back, pressing closer, a smile pulling at her mouth at the feel of their bodies pressed together.

It’s like something realigning in her world, in her chest and heart and bones.

“I missed this,” she sighs, eyes closing.

His lips touch the beck her head, arm tightening as his head shares the same pillow. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “Me too.”

“Are you—”

“Sleep, talk tomorrow,” he mumbles, all gravelly and worn.

Sofie nods, his heart beating against her back, his hand large and warm around hers, arm weighing her down.

She’ll take whatever she can get for now.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Morning comes, bright and bold across his eyelids; still groggy with sleep he can feel the warmth of Sofie still pressed tightly against him. He’s covering her a little more, his knee up and following the curve of her body as she sleeps curled tight, his hand stuck somewhere under her side, arm winding over her; her own tucked near her face on the pillow.

With no space at all between them, it’s impossible that he’s not half-hard; the reality of morning wood made worse by the same dreams that have been plaguing him for months. He thinks about shifting away, but he’s comfortable, eyes still heavy with sleep, body warm and lethargic. And then there’s just being able to hold sofie like he hasn’t been able to since New Year’s is not something he wants to lose just yet.

It’s odd to think that they’ve always been this close. That they’ve slept together in a thousand different ways and places; couches, hammocks, beds—

Hell, those first few months at the hospital, there was more than one occasion where he fell asleep in that stiff back chair, Sofie curled against him, her breathing deep and even in sleep, a little hand curled into his shirt while he woke with a sore neck or aching spine

And now—

He pulls his hand out from beneath her side, stretching his fingers out over the bed, sleep tingling in his nerves.

His hand brushes her knee, curving over the bone, a small uptick to his mouth at just how curled up she is, his hand turning over her calf, skin soft, fingers brushing the sharp point of her ankle, curving around it.

And now—

Now all it took was a moment, a flicker of something on her face, a flush of something _more_  and everything he thought he was, everything he thought they were, every moment was something else entirely.

He knows he won’t say no. Knows there isn’t any going back. That he’s bitten into that apple in her palm and Knowledge has come, left them naked and aware.

So he won’t say no, he won’t turn her away, won’t deny her anything she wants. But he’s still thirty-five and she’s still sixteen. And for as much as he’d like to just touch her, to…to  _fuck_  her, he  _can’t_.

Not yet.

There's a shadow of a voice in his head whispering that she’s  _sixteen_  and sixteen-year-olds have hearts like sand castles, built up with a conviction washed easily away in the surf of a new tide.

But he  _loves_  her, and it is no easy thing. That no amount of tides or winds or the cold, inescapable hand of the law can change it.

That one day she may wake up and realise how stupid and fucked up all of this is and  _leave._

And he’ll let her.

Because she  _should_.

A thought passes as his hand slips over her calf, her knee, up her thigh, wide and heavy to just feel her skin, that he should take his fill while he can, that he should trace every inch of her body with his mouth, sink it into a memory so that  _if_ she does leave he’ll at least have pieces left.

He can barely stomach the thought, it tears up his insides. The idea of her leaving is a bullet wound dead center chest.

Sofie shifts, groaning as she stretches out, the muscles in her thigh flexing beneath his hand. She rolls, a floppy uncoordinated move and tucks her face into his chest, throwing a leg over his thigh.

He shifts his hips slightly back, a little more room between their lower bodies; doesn’t need the temptation of imagining how easy it would be to sink inside of her.

“Mornin’,” she mumbles, lips grazing his skin.

He rubs her back, over cotton and not under it, “Good morning.”

She presses closer, thigh tightening and it’s impossible that she can't feel the weight of his cock, pressing against her... she stops, he stops and then restarts; a hard hand on her hip, holding her body back a little from his.

“Sorry, I can’t—”

Sofie laughs, a little uneven from sleep, and then pushes up, using the bed to shove off of and twists, shoves into him and forces him onto his back as she straddles his waist.

“Fuck, Sofie—” his hands bruise into her thighs, Sofie tilts her head, her hair a mess, fraying out from a knot of a bun on the top of her head, lit up by sunlight, something wicked on her face, he doubts he’s ever seen anything so beautiful, even sleep-rumpled, maybe more beautiful for her mess, the redness in her cheeks, the slump of her t-shirt off her shoulder, the fraying hair and sleepy grin.

“Did you jerk off last night?”

 _God, but she’s fucking blunt_ ; he laughs rough and disbelieving, scrubbing his face with one hand. “Yes.”

“Did you think about me?”

 _Every time._ “Yes,” he sees no point in lying, he’s never lied to her before and isn’t about to start now.

She bites her lip, pulling it into her mouth and he watches it emerge wet and reddened from force.

“I think about you too,” she says, her eyes dark with it, her hands braced on his stomach, spread wide. “When I touch—”

Sweet baby Jesus, this girl is going to  _kill_  him.

He rolls them, her back hitting the bed and making her words cut away into laughter. He braces over her on his hands and knees, can’t stop his eyes from roving over her, the outline of her nipples under the white shirt, baring her hip, the pink of her underwear, a plain cut sitting low on her hips, the soft stretch of skin just above the hem, leading to—

“I’m going to have a shower,” he meets her eyes, still dark and warm, his own voice much the same. “And then we’re going to have breakfast because I’m starving _._ ”

Sofie nods, licking her lips, looking down between them before looking back up at his face; her own all open, a flush creeping over it.

He ducks down, pressing a kiss to her cheek before pushing off of the bed and heading towards the bathroom.

 

 

            Sofie waits until the door shuts and the shower starts and then her fingers are slipping between her legs, curling into her body, hips shifting, hair rubbing behind her as her head tilts and back arcs as she works herself into it.

It’s too easy, too quick and not at all what she wants; not nearly satisfying.

She slips out of the bed, moving down the hall with slick thighs and heads into her own bathroom, peeling off wet underwear and her shirt while the shower runs hot.

Her thoughts from the day before come back as she scrubs the shower puff over her skin, sudsy and sweet smelling.

For all her brashness, for all her want, there’s still a bundle of nerves in her belly that wonders if she’ll disappoint him somehow if she’s too short, or small or awkward.

She thinks she should have asked for specifics, not just  _did you think about me_ , but _how_  and  _why._ Should have asked if he imagined her as she is or if fantasy makes her something more desirable.

It’s not like she thinks she’s ugly, but people call her cute, or pretty, and pretty is a far cry from beautiful, and cute is something for toddlers and not girls who want to climb their dad like a tree.

She flushes, climb  _Tom_  like a tree.  _Why is that so hard to say?_

 

 

 

 

            He’s already in the kitchen when she rounds the staircase, bare feet quiet on the cold floor. Tom’s dumping scoops of powder into the blender, banana peels browning on the counter.

“We should go to the gym, maybe Central Park for a run, we haven’t done that in a while,” he clicks the blender on, a hand held on top, watching it whirl.

Sofie debates it, willing her tongue still, to not just blurt out  _what are we doing_ ; they haven’t been themselves for so long that she thinks maybe this is where they need to start; that they need to be  _SofieandTom_ , to be  _them_  like they always were and just  _be._

The blender stops, silence and the smell of coffee fill the silence, a cup steaming in the Keurig.

She boosts herself up onto the stool, the glass clinking as Tom sets the smoothie down by her elbow, another whirl as he adds more protein to the remainder, his own always thicker than hers.

“Yeah,” she says, after it clicks off again, feeling more sure about her choice. “We should definitely do that.”

“Great,” Sofie doesn’t need to see his face to hear the smile on his face.

 

 

 

 

 

            “Shouldn’t have slept in so late,” Sofie puffs, winded as their feet pound over the pavement that curves around the exterior of Central Park, Sofie falling behind him to avoid a group of parents with strollers before falling back into pace beside him. “It’s always quieter at six.”

“I was up and out at 530 yesterday, I needed that sleep,” he glances at her, an uptick to his mouth. “Since someone decided that slumming it was a good idea.”

“I wasn’t  _slumming_ it,” Sofie laughs, breathless wiping her forehead. “It wasn’t like I was out in Brooklyn.”

“Hey now, I grew up there, it’s not all bad.”

“Then you should take me some time, and I can slum it with you,” she grins briefly, nudging him with her elbow.

“Yeah, maybe at nineteen,” he laughs. “Cop sneaks Sixteen-Year-Old Daughter into Club in Brooklyn; that’s a great headline.”

Sofie laughs, and then curious, a little more breathless. “Would you dance with me?”

He snorts, “ _That_  is an even better headline.”

_Cop Caught Grinding with Sixteen-Year-Old Daughter, further news at six._

Sofie darts out in front, pace quickening, grinning back at him. “Maybe you’re just a terrible dancer,” she teases. “And you don’t want me to know.”

“Oh, you think so?” his eyes sharp, following her speed, longer legs eating the distance easily, passing her with a slow smirk.

“It’s okay,” she forces out, words harder with the pace. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“That’s just so wrong it doesn’t even need to be defended,” he states, before glancing back at her with a sharp grin. “Can’t keep up here, couldn’t keep up there.”

She can’t go any faster, but she can stay at this pace for at least a few more minutes and when they cross back over the trail that leads into the Reservoir Path the speed fades out of them, both gasping for air, slowing to a jog, footfalls heavy as they slow down. She sets her hands on her hips and bounces a few times, not wanting her muscles to go cold, keeping her heart rate at a higher pace.

“I can take whatever you got,” she gasps, pulling in air.

“You think so?” He says around his breaths, half air and less voice. He breathes out once more, then sets out on a slow jog and she follows beside him, falling into his pace like she did so often in the beginning. She can feel the slow drip of sweat down her back and they follow the easier path slowing gradually into walking, letting their bodies cool down.

Sofie bites her lip, breathing through her nose, vaulting at his back and clinging on, arms wrapping around his neck, his hands catch her thighs and the hot flood of heat at his hands slipping a little on her skin is instantaneous. “Whatever you got,” she says again, voice low and near his ear.

His hands twitch, a spasm in the grip; she watches him swallow, his pace slowing more, the shift in the air between them palpable.

“I’ve got a fair bit,” he says lowly, still walking, his hands tight.

Sofie presses her lips to his cheek, has no idea where she pulls this boldness from, only that she’s lit with want, an ache building for years, burning out from his hands and the spread of her legs around him. “You promise?”

“Fucking unbelievable,” he mutters, voice rough.

Neither one says anything after that, Sofie drops her head to his shoulder, forehead slipping sweaty over his skin, his own damp and hot. She's sure he can feel the uneven, excited beat of her pulse, the one that has less to do with exertion and more to do with him.

She isn't sure she cares though, she can feel his blood thumping, all quick and heavy, just as fast as hers is.

Sofie smiles against his shoulder, hope blossoming.

 

 

 

 

 

            Tom is sweat slicked and breathing heavily, pushing through a set of weights, his eyes finding Sofie in the gym every few minutes. Sometimes their eyes meet and even across the gym there’s a pulse; anticipation, all skin and tongue and teeth.

_I can take whatever you got._

_Jesus,_  where the fuck did she come from? What happened to the Sofie that used to make gagging noises when he kissed Lise—

He groans silently, feeling like it’s impossible to separate the  _was_  to the  _is._  The Sofie before and the Sofie after. The Tom before and the Tom after; he’s never been wild or crazy in what he likes, a few curiosities explored when he was younger; but he’s not…he’s never been  _this._

He meets her eyes again, through the mirror, her face pink, gold stuck to her cheeks from exertion.

Never been  _this:_ wants to open her up on his tongue, make her writhe on his fingers, wait for her to say  _please, please,_  and he knows it would be  _Dad_  on her tongue and not _Tom;_ knows he’ll have to lick that name from her tongue when he finally, finally sinks his cock inside of her. That she’ll pant, and beg and groan for him,  _Tom, Tom—_

He nearly hates her for it; for offering him something so perfect and being who she is. For being sixteen, for being  _everything_  she is to him; daughter, best friend, partner…lover?

His stomach clenches, a schism of want and need and love battering against s _houldn’t, couldn’t, don’t._

Knows it’s all inevitable, that orbit she’s pulled him into for so long is unstable; the collision predestined; apocalyptic.

It’s only a matter of time and restraint; his morality a weakened tether.

 

 

 

            They head into one of the unused classrooms, Tom lays out some floor mats, a large enough square for them to move around in. She watches him silently, taking his distraction to watch the roll of his shoulders, the bunch and shifting of his muscles.

Arousal crawls over her and she wants to climb into his lap and twist her fingers into his hair, lick at the sweat on his collar bone; chase salt. She imagines him pulling off her red shorts, or not, just using those long fingers and pulling them aside, just enough to lift her up and let her sink down onto his cock. Her fingers slipping in the sleek of his shoulders, riding him, faster and harder and more desperate, watching his eyes watch her, gasping against his mouth and begging him for more, to not stop,  _don’t stop, don’t stop—_

Her breathing picks up, a deeper pull of air into her lungs; Tom glances up and when their eyes connect, Sofie doesn’t think there is any way he can’t see the arousal that’s evident in the flush of cheeks and the green of her darkened eyes.

The chill of her room pebbles their skin. She settles into the beginning stance, foot braced behind her and Tom tilts his head back slightly, straightens his spine and rolls his shoulders; Sofie meets his eyes, her words from early catching and hanging between them.

_I can take whatever you got._

 

 

 

 

 

            Sofie inhales the smell of pizza, her fingers wrinkled, hair still damp as she comes down the stairs, the front door closing just as her feet hit the bottom.

“That smells amazing,” she groans, following Tom into the living room; both of them showered, changed into relaxed clothes; him in a t-shirt and cotton pants, Sofie back in her sleep shorts, an overlarge sweater to fend off the chill of the air-conditioning.

“Did you think about something to watch?” he asks, clearing a spot for the box on the table in front of the couch and then dropping into the corner.

“Croctopus Volume three,” she drops down beside him, his arm curving over her shoulders; he snorts and Sofie toes the remote closer to the table edge, before toeing it onto her foot like a soccer ball and flicking into her lap.

“Dexterous,” he nods. “Or laziness.”

“Right?” she grins, flicking the TV on, scrolling to Netflix and flipping to comedy, and then horror and then, “The Mummy?”

He shrugs, “I don’t care, anything but Croctopus.”

 

            They finish nearly all of the pizza, Sofie sinking lower, stretching her legs out over the couch, muscles stiff from the day. Languorous against him, her back against his chest, his heartbeat steady and lulling, his arm curves around her, and Sofie has less than half her mind on the movie and more focus on pressing their palms together, lining up their fingers, the difference in the size, a few similar calluses, sports and lifting weights leaving their mark. Tom seems unconcerned, his eyes moving from her to the movie and back every so often. Eventually, she laces their fingers together, dropping them both down to her side, crossed over her stomach.

It’s in the quiet, the dusky dull blue of post-sunset summer evenings, that Sofie notices a pattern of movement, his head turning just slightly, eyes moving from TV to her, and then lower. It isn’t until his fingertips brush her neck that she catches on to what he’s looking at.

The hickey, sitting a pale, dusty red on the curve of her neck. His fingertips brush over it, and then he ducks his head, his hand curved on her shoulder, fingertips curling into the neckline of her shirt while his lips brush, barely there, over the mark he left on her skin in desperation.

“You could give me another one, you know,” her voice is soft, curious, more question than statement. His lips press heavier, just once, and then he clears his throat, hand leaving the hem of her shirt; the back of his fingernails scratching lightly, sending a shiver through her.

“Is that right?” his chest rumbles against her back, but he doesn’t move to do so, turning back to the movie as a sand dune swallows a plane.

 

            The movie ends, and they straighten up, the extra pieces wrapped and into the fridge, the box into the garbage; it’s all so domestic and nearly exactly what Sofie had fantasized about months ago. Just him and her, a world of their own.

They head upstairs and Sofie heads to her bathroom to brush her teeth, swishing with mouthwash to take the lingering traces of pizza out of her mouth.

In the hallway, she meets him as he’s flicking the hall light off, and he doesn’t look surprised that she’s there, doesn’t try to stop her when she heads to the spare room, just follows behind her, silent and broad.

The door shuts and there’s silence, just moonlight and the low light on his side table casting a pale white glow. Sofie crawls onto the bed, and Tom stands there, looking at her from the foot, his face unreadable.

“We’re just sleeping,” his voice is quiet, though there’s no need, the house is dark and empty.

Sofie nods, disappointment dulled by getting to sleep with him again, by spending the day together and finding a little bit of normal; a new normal, she hopes.

He lingers, grey eyes dark in the low light, before he reaches out, taking hold of her ankle, dragging her to the edge of the bed, her hair spread out behind her. His hand slips from the bone, becomes both hands on her calves, sliding over her knees, pressing heavier up her thighs.

At the hem of her shorts his fingers curl in, a pull and Sofie feels her heart tick up, her shorts leave her hips, her thighs, her knees. Tom tugs them off, dropping them to the floor. When he leans over her, Sofie watches his shoulders and then his mouth, her heart pounding.

A kiss to her stomach; breath ghosting before he presses a slower kiss to the shifting of her belly, her hands knotted into the duvet beneath them, trying to stay still.

Another kiss, a hot wet press of his tongue, just below her belly button, another, lower still, his frame lowers, head dropping low, closer to her hip, a scrape of teeth and wet lips. Another, on her hip, teeth making her jolt, her hand darting up and curling into his hair. His breath puffs over the wet skin and he drops his head just above the hem of her underwear, in the soft curve between hipbone and the start of her sex.

His hand touches her hip, thumb on her bone and holding on, and then he sucks, pulls the thin skin into his mouth and drags blood to the surface. Her body floods, the feeling burns through her, a bright spot of something near pain, but filling her body with something much more wicked. She makes a noise, something torn between a whimper and a gasp.

Tom’s thumb presses harder, holding her down, his tongue licking over the mark, before lowering again. A scrape of teeth, another harsh pull and her foot slips over the bed, hips trying to shift higher, wanting him to sink lower.

He leans back, wipes his mouth with his forearm, looking down over her, eyes dark, breathing a bit rough, Sofie stress at him, blinking, skin tingling.

“You said I could give you another,” his voice is torn, jagged and dark. Like he meant for it all to be a bit more of a joke but he got lost in it somewhere along the way.

“That’s it?” she squeaks, voice high, staring at him, mouth parted, rising to her elbows. “But—”

“But now we sleep,” he finishes, moving to the side of the bed. He can’t do much to hide the half hard thickness at the front of his pants but he peels back the covers, slipping under them.

Sofie groans, her hands covering her face, body sagging, boneless against the bed. “Oh my God, _I hate you_.”

Tom chuckles, all rough-edged and leans forward, curves an arm around her waist and pulls her up and into his side.

Sofie squirms, her body hot, feels like her every nerve ending is sourced out of that one red mark on her hip. Her thighs clench, and she presses back into him, wiggling lower, her ass pressing into that thick line she can’t stop thinking about.

His hand darts out, gripping onto her hip, a warning in his hand and voice. “Sofie.”

She turns her head into the cool pillow, cheeks hot and whines; doesn’t even care how she sounds.

“But you’re hard—”

“And you’re  _sixteen_ , give me a break here, Sof. I’m trying.”

It isn’t angry, more wound up and frayed, but his hand is tight, his body stiff, voice firm.

She wills her heart to settle, Tom reaches over her head for an extra pillow on the other side of the bed, stuffing between their lower bodies.

“I get it,” she grumbles. “I won’t try anything.”

“It’s not for you, Sofie, it’s for me,” he presses his lips to the back of her neck, voice still heavy and firm.

She isn’t sure what to do with that information, how it compares to  _I’m trying, Sofie._  Isn’t sure what he means by either statement; finds herself rolling both of them over in mind, his voice a boundless sort of echo along her insides, his body heat a lulling weight that leaves her heavier, heavier...

 

Until sleep comes and there's nothing but dreams made up of that same weight and voice.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was massive, so I split it into two. Make sure you read seven before eight.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE!!!
> 
> This chapter was massive, so I split it into two. Make sure you read seven before eight.

 

 

* * *

Chapter VIII

* * *

 

 

 

 

            An alarm blares, a shift of the bed, his hand reaching back to smack it; then curling back around her, breath warm against the back of her head, arm heavy and pulling her in closer. She’s too tired and half-awake to register much, just that he’s still for so long the world fades into warmth and haziness only to be shattered apart as the alarm goes off again. Sofie groans, rolling over to reach for it, thinking it her own alarm in her semi-conscious state.

She ends up sprawled over his chest, her fingers tapping the snooze, before dropping tiredly, her cheek pushing against his chest.

 _“Don’go_ ,” she mumbles, wrapping her arms around him, legs tangled in his.

Tom grunts, chest rumbling beneath her ear. Sofie closes her eyes, lids heavy—

 

           The alarm blares, and Tom turns, dislodging her, untangling their limbs and peeling sleep-stuck skin apart. Sofie drops back onto the bed, curling up in his warm spot, cocooning under the blankets.

He showers, shaves, watches her small lump of blankets as he dresses, wonders at how one rather mundane morning with her undoes every morning he ever spent with anyone else so quickly. He  _never_  sleeps in.

He leans over her before he goes, presses a kiss to her sleep warm cheek and debates for a moment, taking the day off.

 

He doesn’t, but it surprises him how much he wants to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “Man, I always forget how boring this shit is until we’re in it,” Marcus complains, his head tilting back against the seat.

Tom nods, draining the last of his coffee, his eyes not leaving the apartment block ahead.

“How’re you and Sof?”

Tom blinks, the question catching him off guard until he remembers that Marcus last saw her standing at the edge of the street in a stupidly small dress after being pulled out of a club by a pissed off…whatever Tom is to her now.

“We’re fine,” he shrugs. “She gets that it was stupid.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t tell any of the parents.”

“Don’t need my...” a pause, the word on his tongue was  _kid,_ but he knows how her skin tastes and what she looks like swollen-lipped from his mouth; filled up with want and wonder. “Don’t need Sofie mad at me for it. Fuck if I didn’t do way worse shit when I was her age, be a bit hypocritical of me to rat them all out for one night. They’ve never been this stupid before.”

“That you know of,” Marcus laughs. “But yeah, I get that. We all did dumb shit.”

 _That you know of_.

Except he does know; knows he was her first kiss, the first real touch of sex weighted hands, the first brush of an intent to peel layers, strip restraint and shame and modesties like clothing.

He does  _know_.

Knows he’ll be her first fucking  _everything_.

Rain splatter lightly on the windshield, a fine grey mist over the skyline, matches the odd sorrow in his chest. Wishes he had stayed home, wishes he could crawl back into bed behind her, waste the day away with her laughter in his ear; a dimple-cheeked sun to chase the grey day away.

He’ll be her first fucking everything.

He feels his coffee climbing his throat; knows he’ll take every last thing she offers him because he loves her so goddamn much it’s more of an agony than a blessing _._

And he’s terrified that one day she’ll hate him for it.

“There he is,” Marcus’s door opens, and Tom follows on instinct, his heart in his throat, a voice in his ear  _Do you have any idea how much I want—_

 _Yes,_ he thinks, as they move forward, side by side, guns drawn. Marcus’s voice loud and firm, a command to the man to get his hands up.

 

_Yes, I do._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

            “Hey, Mrs Soung,” Sofie greets as she hops in the car and buckles up. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“No problem, Sofie, Grace said your mother’s on a trip?”

“Yeah, girl’s weekend, but like, a girl’s week, you know?” she smiles.

“And your dad’s working?”

 Grace turns in her seat to roll her eyes at her mother’s questions.

“Yeah, but he’s usually home pretty early.”

“So you’re home alone?”

“Mom, we’re sixteen,” Grace complains. “And her dad’s a cop, remember?”

“Oh right,” she smiles. “I bet he’s pretty protective then, hm?”

Grace laughs, turning to look at Sofie again, her fingers knotting at the front of her shirt, miming Tom holding the guy still while he punched him.

“Yeah,” Sofie laughs, her body flooding with the memory of  _he had his hands all over you._  “He is.”

“Well, at least you know you’ll always be safe,” she smiles in the rear view mirror and Sofie smiles back, nodding. “So I’ve got to run some errands, but let’s set a meet up time for about one or two? Then maybe we could grab lunch and head home.”

Grace looks surprised, “You want to do lunch?”

“Sure, we’ve been gone so much lately, I don’t think we’ve hung out in a while. Unless I’m intruding…”

“No,” Sofie pipes up, seeing Grace’s shock. “Lunch sounds great.”

 

 

 

            “Like, they're home less than any parents I know,” Grace huffs, flipping through the rack. “She has no right to comment on you being home alone. They just got back from some conference in Seoul, and I know they have another in L.A next week.”

“Parents rarely make sense,” Sofie says, flipping absently through t-shirts on the next rack. “And you’ve got your brother right, so she probably thinks it’s different.”

“My brother is home less than I am, and when he is home, he shuts himself in his room and doesn’t come out for anything but food.”

Sofie bites her lip, feeling suddenly terrible for having Tom, who would never, ever leave her that long.

“It’s not that I care,” Grace frowns. “I know they’re working and honestly, I like them better when they’re gone anyway. They’re too controlling when they’re home, but like, chill, right?”

Sofie nods, knowing that it’s what Grace wants to see.

“Anyway,” she smiles, blowing out a breath. “What did you want to look at, you never want to go shopping?”

Sofie pushes her lips together, thinking over how to say  _I want nicer underwear because I want my D— I want Tom to take it off me._

“I need new underwear and bras,” she shrugs, feeling the half-truth come easily out of her mouth. “I think I’ve put on some more weight and some of its pretty tight.”

Grace laughs, “Yeah, your butt was super cute in that dress, I definitely noticed,” she pokes Sofie's stomach. “You’re not such a bean pole anymore.”

“Hey—”

“Maybe one day your ass could even compare to mine,” she grins over her shoulder, leading Sofie out of the store.

Sofie can’t help but look down, it is a pretty nice butt.

 

 

 

           Sofie looks at herself in the change room mirror, skin pebbled from the chill of the store, the bra padded and thick for  _maximum push up_.

She pokes it, can barely feel the touch with the amount of padding between her skin and the bra.

 _It looks ridiculous,_ she thinks,  _and what’s the point of a bra where you can’t even feel someone touching you?_

“These look stupid!” Sofie whines, knowing Grace is on the other side. “I look like I stuck oranges under the cups.”

Grace laughs and then sticks her head through the curtain. “It really does,” she snickers and then slips out again. “Hang on, I saw...”

Her voice trails off and Sofie looks at herself in the mirror, cupping the heavy padded bra and squeezing, pushing against it. Feeling a little defeated Sofie reaches back to the clasp, and hanging the bra back on the hook before a hand bursts through the curtain and she squawks, covering herself.

“Try these,” Grace says and shakes the dangling bras.

Sofie takes the handful, looking through them, nearly all of them a mix of lace and mesh, nearly sheer but for the darker colours.

“I don’t think these are me—” Sofie trails off, deflating a little.

“Sure they are, you can wear whatever you like,” Grace insists. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

“Cause I’m not…”  _sexy,_  she thinks, looking at the bras. “I wear sports bras.”

“So now you’re going to wear sports bras and lacy bras, congratulations, you’re a girl,  Sof.”

_Is it that easy?_

“Just try one on, stop freaking.”

“I’m not  _freaking,_ ” Sofie grumbles, but pulls on the first one in the pile, a black,  _balconette_ the tag says, it’s lace with areas that show skin underneath the thin material; her nipples barely visible, but still noticeable if someone were looking.

It looks like something someone would wear because they knew it would look good even before it came off.

Which is what she hopes will happen eventually.

“Well?” Grace calls through the curtain. “Yay or nay?”

She debates another moment, but it does look good on her, she thinks. Sexy, even.

“Yay,” she answers, a smile pulling on her lips.

 

She ends up buying more than one set.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            It’s still raining when his shift ends, feels damp and tired from being in and out of the wet weather all day, the house is quiet when he walks in; moving into the study wondering where Sofie is.

He tugs off his tie and pours himself a drink before heading upstairs; the first instinct to check her room turns up nothing and he frowns before he turns around, the door shutting quietly behind him and sees the open door to the spare room.

She’s sitting up, a book in her hands and she looks up when he enters, a look on her face he can’t decipher.

“Hey, _Daddy_ ,” she greets, but her voice is wrong, sharp-edged.

 _Daddy_.

Sofie hasn’t called him that in years.

“Hey, Sof.” he tries for a smile. Hopes it’s more convincing than it feels and knocks back his drink, dropping his tie on the dresser and moving towards the bed, when the book comes flying at him and smacks him in the chest before plopping, cover up on the floor.

“Jesus, Sofie, what the fu—”

_Shit._

The book stares up at him, one of the few he bought months ago,  _Attachment, Trauma and Healing: Understanding and Treating Attachment Disorder in Children._

When he looks up at her, her eyes are wet, but it’s anger and betrayal that’s clear cut in the set of her jaw, the cut of her eyes.

“Is that what you think this is?” she spits, she all but stumbles from the bed, body shaking. “That I’m _traumatised_?”

“Sofie—”

 _“Fuck you,_ ” she cries. “I’m not some abused fucking _kid_ —” her voice hitches, and he swears the sound of it steals his own breath.

“I don’t—”

“That because some guy I don’t even remember died when I was  _four_ —” she sucks in a breath. “That I  _attached_ on to you? That I have, what was it? A disorder? PTSD?”

He reaches for her, an apology falling unheard; Sofie shoves him, or tries to, too angry to focus, to listen, knocks his hands away when he tries again.

“I don’t have daddy issues!” she spits. “I know who my dad is, I know who my father is, they aren’t the same!”

“Sofie, stop!” he grabs her wrist holding her still when she tries to pull away. “I don’t think—”

“Then why do you have it!” she yells, wet-cheeked.

“Because I needed to know!” he yells back and then snaps his mouth shut, teeth grinding. “I needed to understand—”

“Understand  _what_ ,” she shakes her head. “What’s so hard to understand? I love you.”

“And, you fucking _shouldn’t!_ ” he snaps, anger flaring.

“If you don’t want me then just say so!” she yells. “ _Just tell me!_ ”

“Of course I want you! Jesus, Sofie, how isn’t that fucking obvious?”

He pulls her closer, and she turns her head when he tries to turn her face to his, so he cups her cheeks, forcing her to look at him.

“I love you, more than I should, in every way I shouldn’t.” It’s honest and more terrifying than he thought it would be saying it out loud. “You can’t tell me you don’t know how fucked up that is?”

“You’re the one making it fucked up,” she pulls his hands away, wiping her eyes and straightening up. “You’re the one taking something good and making it bad.”

“It’s not right—”

“It can be,” she insists, and her voice is filled with conviction, more confident as she says it. “You might be my dad, but you aren’t my father. And maybe it’s weird, maybe it isn’t normal, but it isn’t  _wrong_ —”

 “Sofie…” he sighs, crossing his arms. “You’re my daughter.”

“But not by blood,” she insists. “It’s not illegal.”

“You’re  _sixteen_ ,” he snaps. “I’m thirty fucking five and—”

“And your best friend, right?” she interrupts. He nods, jaw tight.

“And you love me, right?” she doesn’t wait for a yes, doesn’t need one. “You love me and you wouldn’t hurt me—”

“Oh  _come on_ ,” he bites out, irate. “You know how often we hear that,  _but I love them, I didn’t mean to hurt her, I love her._  It’s bullshit, Sofie, and it means  _nothing._ ”

“It’s not the same thing!”

“I put men like me away!” he stands straighter, voice deep and angry, but it isn’t at her. “I hunt them down and I make sure they fucking _rot._ ”

His jaw ticks, trying to reign himself in. "You think men all over the world don’t do exactly what I’m doing? Telling themselves _it’s okay because she loves me, that it’s not wrong because she wants it too._ Laws are there for a reason, they apply to everybody for a reason—”

“We’re not  _everybody!_ ” she steps closer, her hands curling into the shirt over his arms. “You keep making things…perverted and all…all twisted up. I know what you see, that you see the worst of people every day, but we’re not  _them._ ”

“It’s still illegal, Sofie.”

“And we’re  _us_ , we always have been…” she meets his eyes, green bright and deadly, but firm, even wet and wide. “We’re Tom and Sofie and we always have been, why not be this too?”

“Sof…” he sighs like she’s missing it and not understanding, and she nearly hates herself for it, but she can’t let him think that what they have is perverted and wrong when it’s  _not._

She reaches up, Tom keeps his arms crossed despite the desire to pull her closer and never let go. He lets her pull him down, lets her pull him into a soft, slow kiss, his hands clenching to stay still, so full of love it’s an agony.

“There’s no way that’s wrong,” she breathes out warm over his mouth before she lets him go and he straightens, mouth tingling.

“We’ve always been Tom and Sofie,” she says quietly. “Nothing changes. For us, nothing changes. Except sometimes when the door shuts, we get to be a naked Tom and Sofie too.”

There’s a beat of silence.

He can’t stop the tick of his mouth, “Creative,” he presses his lips together to stop the humour spreading. “Been holding on to that one for long?”

“No,” she smiles wetly. “You know what they say, desperation is the mother of invention.”

“I think that’s necessity,” he lets a breath go, a huff of humour.

“Same difference,” she leans forward and he unknots his arms, pulling her closer, a hand on the back of her neck, letting her rest against him, her forehead hot against his chest.

“You understand that no one can know,” he says quietly, hating himself for it, knowing what it means. “That I could go to jail, or worse, they could take you away from me, Sofie, and I wouldn’t ever see you again.”

The idea alone is suffocating, Sofie makes a noise in her throat, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist.

“I don’t care if it’s fifty years, or a hundred,” she mumbles into his chest. “I don’t care if we have to lie to everyone forever.”

She turns her head up, her face wet again, as torn apart by the idea of never seeing each other again as he is.

“Now will you kiss me?”

She’s devastating. He doesn’t know if he’s ever loved her or hated her more.

He pulls her up, letting her wrap her legs around his waist, catches her mouth and tries to pour every ounce of love he has for her into her mouth.

 

           Sofie tries to match his hunger with her own; pulls him closer, arms winding over his shoulders, wants to fuse their bodies together, wants so much more it's nearly painful.

Tom’s hands slip from her thighs to her ass, and then one caresses up, under her shirt, up her spine, bumping along notches, fingers spread wide and palm heavy.

Her back hits the bed, and Tom presses down over her, his hand warm over her hip, her side, over her ribs and back down over her belly. Like he’s just…feeling her.

His mouth is hot and wonderful and Sofie’s lungs burn, turning her head to catch her breath. Tom kisses, nipping little things down her neck, over her clavicle. Sofie reaches between them, fingers slipping on buttons, undoing each, reaching his belt and tugging the fabric out; shoving the fabric over his shoulders until it won’t go any farther. She pushes at his shoulders, his shirt caught on his biceps, her palms sliding over skin, while his mouth travels back up to hers and steals her breath again.

His hands slip over her hips, up her sides, curving under her back to lift her up; her shirt leaves her head and their mouths break apart. When she drops back to the bed, Tom looks down at her, still on his knees, her legs curved around his sides, ankles crossed.

Sofie kind of wants to laugh or cry; spent hours fretting over bras, over what he would see when he looked at her, and after all of the worry about what he’ll see or if he’ll enjoy looking… he gets nothing but skin.  _That’s one way to get it over with,_  she thinks.

She watches him peel off his shirt, his eyes heavy, moving over her body; very nearly wants to cross her arms over her chest, to hide beneath a pillow, feels scrawny and stupid and young.

Her arms twitch, and she reaches out, pulling at his arm until he leans back down, skin hot over hers, catches her mouth and kisses her deep, tongue seeking hers, pulling her awkwardness out in slow licks that turn into a trail of kisses down her neck. Turn into open mouthed kisses, scrapes of his teeth travelling lower, over clavicle, between her breasts, Sofie makes a noise in her throat, her hands knotting into his hair, spine tightening, body shifting.

He kisses lower, tongue chasing the light scrapes of his teeth over her stomach, over the rapid inhales of her belly down to her belly button, a kiss that makes her mouth twitch, her hips shift. His mouth travels back up, wet and warm.

He presses a kiss to the side of her breast, and then his breath hits her nipple, a current of heat that makes her whimper while her fingers scratch into his hair.

His mouth closes around it and Sofie arches, chest rising, ankles digging into his lower back. Her voice breaks out of her, _oh god,_  as his tongue flicks, a scrape of teeth that make her jolt and her hips shift against his lap.

His mouth breaks away; Tom breathes heavy, forehead resting against her sternum, his hands gripping into her hips convulsively.

She isn’t sure what she’s expecting, but he shifts, reaching back and pushing her knee wider, moving out from between her legs and stretching out next to her. His hand is warm, spreads out over her stomach, Sofie turns her head to look at him, a question on her tongue, but he kisses her, hard and rough and it says more than she thinks words can.

His hand tightens on her hip, bruising in, she can feel heavy, hard bulge digging into her thigh and she thinks, at least she knows he doesn’t hate what he sees.

His kisses slow eventually, hand easing off her hip. He nudges her, and Sofie gets the idea, rolling onto her side as he curves up behind her, his mouth falling to shoulder.

“I love you,” he breathes over her skin, voice nearly lost to gravel, lips skimming over her shoulder blade.

Sofie feels oddly like crying, swallows around a lump in her throat and pushes out,  _I love you too_. Wishing she could make all of this a little bit easier on him, wishing he didn’t feel so obviously torn up about loving her the way he does, wishes he didn’t feel guilty and ashamed—

Wishes she had found it in herself to wait until she was eighteen before trying to kiss him, but knows she can’t take it back now.

She thinks it’s a long time before either one of them find sleep.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

            Tom wakes to Sofie half on top of him, he glances down at the top of her head resting on her chest, her hair tickling his neck. Her arm is flopped out over the bed on the other side, one leg thrown over his waist, the other tangled into his.

Almost literally on top of him; shirtless.

His head drops back against the pillow, the night before filling up his mind; trying to focus on that and not on how it feels to have her half naked, more than half, the shorts don’t cover much.

Sightless, he stares at the ceiling, the blue glow of pre-dawn filling the room; her heart beating against his chest, slow and even.

He rolls her off of him, shushing her when she frowns and mumbles out  _dad,_  in a way that somehow tears him open and stitches him back together all at once.

           

            She can smell coffee and hear the clink of a mug when she rounds the last step, tugged on a shirt and did her teeth to seek him out before he leaves for work.

“Made you one,” he points to the glass sitting on the counter. “Heard you moving up there.”

“Thanks,” she leans against the counter beside him, looking up at him, bottom lip in her teeth.

He looks at her for a long moment and then shakes his head, a smile breaking out.

“Knock it off,  Sof.”

“What?” she smiles because he does, can’t stop the reaction, but she has no idea what he’s talking about.

He just shakes his head again and then curves a hand around her hip and leans down, it isn’t slow or soft or something meant for  _good morning,_ it’s deep and thorough like he wants to keep her taste in his mouth all day.

She curls her hands around his shoulders, rising on her toes to lessen the distance, he smiles against her mouth before kissing her again.

“I’ve gotta,” he says in between one kiss and another. “Go.” 

He straightens, stepping back her hands slide over his chest and then away. She watches him look down at his lap as he turns to go, cursing in a way that makes her heart trip and grin break out.

He’s at the door before she remembers what he said and calls out, “What do I have to knock off?”

“Your face,” he laughs and then the door shuts and Sofie’s stomach growls, so she reaches for her smoothie, swallowing a mouthful thinking:

 

_My face?_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “So Sarah and I kissed,” Theo states, and then shoves a handful of chips in his mouth.

“You what?” Sofie blurts, mouth dropping open. “When? Why? Wait, _what_?”

He snorts, wiping his hand on his shirt. “Last night,” I ran into her Dillon’s birthday party and…” he shrugs. “Then we kissed.”

“And?”

“And nothing, I dunno. Grace is mad at me, I just told her too.”

“Why? She likes Sarah,” Sofie frowns, watching him shove another mouthful into his face.

“She does,” voice garbled as he chews; she sends him a  _really?_  face as he speaks. “But she says Sarah goes through boys like candy. But well, I wouldn’t mind being the candy, right?”

Sofie laughs, shaking her head. “But why? Do you like her?”

He shrugs, “I don't know, she’s hot and pretty nice most of the time, but I don’t exactly have girls lining up for me. So…”

“You’re a great guy, Sarah’d be lucky to date you.”

Theo rolls his eyes. “I’m kind of a nerd, Sof. And you and Grace are my best friends, so I don’t really get a lot of second looks stuck in between you two unless it’s a guy who’s trying to ask me about one of you.”

“Guys do that?”

Theo shoots her a look like  _duh._

“That’s…kinda gross,” Sofie pulls a face.

“Yeah, you should hear guy-talk in change rooms, all I can say is I’m glad I’m not a jock and I only have to hear it after gym class and not all the time.”

Her lips curls; can only imagine the things boys say, has heard a few inappropriate conversations around the precinct, or heard things called out on the streets, whether at her or at other girls.

Guys are generally pretty gross, actually.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not like that,” she says, stretching out on the bed. “But more importantly, this Sarah business. So why’d you kiss her?”

“She kissed me, actually. And I have no idea,” he frowns. “She wasn’t drinking or anything, just so you know, so I don’t really…know.”

“Huh,” Sofie huffs, thinking. “Maybe she likes you?”

Theo’s eyebrows rise sharply. “Uh-huh, cause that’s the logical explanation. You know what Sarah and I have in common?”

“No?”

“Hair colour,” he states primly. “That’s it.”

Sofie laughs. “Okay, but maybe…”

“She secretly likes math nerds who love Star Trek?”

“Maybe she wants you to boldly go where a few men have gone before,” Sofie grins.

Theo laughs, his head tilting back. “That was good.”

“Thank you,” she laughs. “But really though, if you don’t really like her why’d you kiss her?”

“Why not?” he frowns, thinking it over. “Like, I’d like to kiss someone, or you know, do more than kiss.”

 _Oh, me too,_  Sofie thinks and then has to  _not_  think about Tom’s mouth on her chest last night.

“Like, we could, potentially have sex. I could have  _sex_  with  _Sarah_ ,” he says incredulously like he has trouble believing it.

Sofie would like to commiserate the feeling but she has no way to say,  _I feel you,_   _I could potentially, hopefully, one day soon, have sex with Tom._

“I mean, we already crossed first base off the list, right, so what’s like two more,” he rambles.

_Last night I think we crossed second base._

“I think you should go for it if you want to, it’s not like you don’t know Sarah well enough, and you aren’t going to get hurt…then…” she rolls her hand. “Slide on home, buddy.”

He groans, but then his phone rings on the bed beside him and Sofie watches him check the message. “It’s Sarah,” he frowns, flicking open the text, his eyes moving over it. “She…wants to know what I’m doing. Why would she want to know what I’m doing?”

“Maybe she likes you, Theo,” Sofie states again. “It’s really not that unbelievable.”

_I want my dad to fuck me, so…like, relatively speaking…_

“She wants to meet up, should...I should go, right?”

Sofie laughs and nods, “Yeah, obviously.”

Theo blurs as he sits up, shaking the laptop. “Okay,” he tells himself. “I can do this. I can be cool. I can be cool, right?”

“Just be yourself, Theo, she called you, remember?”

 _Yeah, yeah,_ he mutters off screen; Sofie watches empty mess of his bed. “Hey, Theo?”

His face pops back, “Yeah?”

“Might want to change your shirt though,” she motions to her shoulder where he has a line of orange from his chip crumbs.

“Shit,” he curses and disappears again.

Sofie snaps the laptop lid, reaching for her phone and rolling onto her back, stretching out.

 

> _S: Give her all you got, Captain ;)_

Her phone buzzes a minute later, a middle finger emoji and nothing else.

Sofie laughs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

            He’s greeted by the sound of laughter when he gets home, the television from the study spilling out from the open door.

Sofie’s curled up on the couch, flicking channels absently, cheek mushed against the pillow, she glances up at him when he rounds the couch, sitting up.

“Hey,” she greets, and he notices the GRAYDON NYPD emblazoned on her chest.

“Jesus, you still have that thing?” Tom heads to the cabinet and pours himself a drink, tugging off his tie with one hand and taking a mouthful of alcohol with the other.

“It’s comfortable,” she shrugs, picking at the hem, soft and worn, an old thing from his time in the academy. “I like it.”

He drops down at the other end of the couch, pulling her feet into his lap, thumb smoothing along the arch of her foot.

Her leg twitches, a noise like a swallowed squeak; his lips twitch in response before he takes another sip of his drink.

“Long day?” she asks, lying back down, curved enough to look at him, head on the couch pillow, her hair braided and fraying out in wispy pieces.

He nods, thumb brushing the bone of her ankle, following the line of her calf to her knee, up to her thigh, the hem of the shirt short enough that he wonders if she even has anything on underneath.

He pulls his eyes away, taking another swallow, a little too much as it burns down his throat.

“Everything okay?”

“Just a long day, dead end after dead end. Trying to find a tattoo. Something specific.”

“Oh, how are you doing that?”

“Inmate records, mug shots, booking photos…” he swallows the rest of the drink, leans forward to drop the glass on the table. When he sits back, he thinks only,  _fuck it._

Gives into the stupid, useless want to  _cuddle_  and slips in behind her on the sofa, winding one arm around her waist to pull her tight and let out a long exhale over the back of her neck.

He’s half sure he’s been waiting all day for this; that’s a lie, he’s damn sure.

Sofie huffs a laugh, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Are  _you_  okay?”

“Peachy,” he mumbles; eyes slipping closed. “You?”

“Peachy,” she repeats back and wiggles closer. She pushes the pillow to the floor and drags his arm under her head.

There’s silence for a long time filled only with the low drone of some cooking show. Sofie shifts occasionally, but its minute enough that he can keep his body in check.

Eventually, his body unwinds from the day’s frustrations, all of it slipping away as he relaxes against her. He opens his eyes again; out the window, the world is burning orange, and absently he thinks he should make dinner or order something.

He untucks his hand from where it was curled under her waist and shifts enough to reach into his pocket to look at his phone.

“Are you hungry?”

“A bit,” she replies, shifting into him and stretching out more. He doesn’t know if it’s the stretch or the shift, but her t-shirt rises enough that the question of whether she has anything on underneath is answered without words. Her hip curves sharply, a line of something lacy and dark, curving around, sitting low on her hip. The shirt high enough to tease a curve of her bottom—

He’s still holding his phone in his hand, he realises. Tearing his eyes away and trying to remember what he was doing.

He clears his throat, cock filling out slightly; mind spinning images of—

Sofie takes his phone from his fingers, reaching forward and setting it on the table. The stretch lifts her shirt more and there is lace or something like it, curved around her hip and dark over her skin. Sheer enough to show hints of skin beneath, the lace pattern curving lower and over—

He moves to sit up, but Sofie grabs his wrist and he stills.

Her hips push back intently, and she sucks in a breath; roll again, ass grinding against him and he grunts, hand grabbing onto her hip—

She rocks back and Tom’s hips twitch forward; breath pushed out of his lungs. Her shirt climbs higher, with every slow roll back and her name sits on his tongue, ready for him to say,  _Sofie, stop,_  but he can’t get it out of his mouth. He watches the shirt rise, her hips move and before he can stop himself, his hand is spreading wider, slipping up her side, the shirt rising, caught above his hand.

It’s a fantastic ass; the underwear he could care less about, though he wonders briefly if she bought it with the hope he’d see it.

His hand slides over her side, down onto her stomach, and he can feel her body quivering; can’t help but enjoy how easily his hand spans her stomach, how much he apparently enjoys being so much larger than her.

Sofie squirms, her ass pushing harder into his lap, her hand coming down over his, pushing. He knows what she’s asking for, knows that it’s a silent little urge for him to touch her.

But he doesn’t think he can, not yet. No matter how much he’d like to watch her—

He presses his hand a little lower, fingertips brushing lace. Sofie pushes out a breath, her stomach clenching. Another little inch and they tuck just under the black material, her skin warm and soft, the slight rise of her mound; a little more and he groans, turning his head into her neck, hand stilling, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against her neck, her shoulder. Eyes moving back to his hand, large and heavy over what he knows is nothing but bare skin and damp heat.

“Christ,” he curses, cock aching, hips twitching into her. He pulls his hand out and Sofie groans; all frustration. Her head dropping back, a curse breaking out of her mouth.

“I hate you,” she whines. Tom nips her shoulder, another idea burning up the back of his mind, one that doesn’t leave him feeling quite so much like he should be locking himself up and throwing away the key.

He reverses their hands, covering the back of hers, slipping them both down under the lace, keeping his fingers over her knuckles, pressing down; a silent instruction.

He feels her fingers straighten and then slip, and he has to pull his hand back a little more, leaves it resting just inside of her underwear on her hip; too afraid he’ll touch her.

Sofie squirms, her foot digging into the couch, knee falling wider; his scrapes his teeth over her shoulder, eyes moving between their hands and her face as her fingers begin to move, as her body rolls and shifts against his.

Her breathing turns to whines, turns to  _please, please_  as her spine starts to arch; a wet sound just beneath the pitch and hitch of her breathing; his own laboured and rough. Mouth parted, eyes heavy, body filled up and balanced right on the edge.

Feels like he could probably come in his pants for the sheer sight of it.

He watches the shift of the lace, wishes he could make himself tear that small useless bit of fabric off her and watch her hand move, her fingers curl, just skin and slickness, all bare and open. But he can’t move his hand, can’t make his voice work, can’t do anything but burn up and keep watching.

Her body tightens, that slick, wet sound gets louder as her head tilts back harder against his arm, her mouth open and panting and he doesn’t think there’s a goddamn thing in the world hotter than the way her body looks, squirming and arching higher, thighs twitching—

And then her thighs start to turn inward, hand moving faster and his heart pounds, her voice breaks open louder,  _oh g-god_

_DadDad—_

And she comes, tensing up, her thighs closing, their hands trapped tight as she shakes apart—

He doesn’t even think about it, he’s tearing at his belt and zipper, the metal sound loud even beneath her gasping, a cold sound in all that heat; gets them shoved down enough to wrap a hand around himself, manages no more than a few, desperate unsteady jerks before he comes, a hot splatter over her ass and lower back.

“Jesus,” he groans, forehead dropping to her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Wow…” Sofie puffs, all breathless and frayed; her legs falling straight, body loose. Her fingers slip out of her underwear all wet and leave a trail of shine over her stomach. He thinks about licking it off.

“I want to—” Sofie squirms like she’s trying to roll over to face him, he puts a hand on her hip to hold her still and gets distracted a little by the white mess he left on her skin.

 _So much for restraint,_  he thinks.

“Stay still for a sec, I—” his thumb rubs a bit of it into her skin, cock twitching at the sight. “I need to wipe you off.”

Sofie grins, staying still. “Or, we could just do it again and—”

He tucks himself back into his pants, pushing her forward a little, eyes on her ass, the lacy, underwear—

“Did you buy these for me?” he asks, leaving his belt and pants undone to slide a finger under the lace at her hip.

A beat, a hesitation. “Maybe,” she mumbles, shifting.

“Why?”

Her shoulder jerks, Tom sits up and peels off his shirt, no other option for wiping up the mess he made.

He wipes the material over her lower back, the arch before the swell of her bottom, down over the lace; he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that he can feel the need to do it all again rising up like an ignored hunger.

 

           Tom leans over her, the shirt folded over and then he drops it onto the table, before bracing over her and catching her eyes.

“You don’t have to dress up for me, you know,” his face is a little flushed and Sofie imagines hers is much worse, her body still hot and thrumming for more.

She shrugs, “It worked though,” she glances down at his mouth, waiting for a kiss.

His hand slides over her thigh, hot and heavy, fingers curling under the curve of the lace, pulling it aside before he spreads his hand out wide, palm warm as he cups a cheek. “Because it’s a fantastic ass, not because of the underwear.”

She flushes, “Yeah?”

His hand tightens, eyes dark, mouth dropping lower. “Mm-hm.”

Their lips meet, and the kiss starts soft and slow and gets deeper, his hand squeezing, fingers slipping under the bottom curve of the cheek before his hand caresses up over her hip, over her side, down over her stomach and pulling her back into him.

She thinks he might be hard again, but it’s hard to tell with the belt in the way.

He breaks the kiss eventually, reaching over her for his phone.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking starving. Food?”

“Food,” she laughs, pulling him back down for one more kiss.

 

 

            When the doorbell rings thirty minutes later, they’ve changed into new clothes while waiting for their dinner.

Sofie can feel how kiss swollen her lips are whenever she licks them, watching as Tom heads to the door, gets distracted by the ease of his body, the width of his shoulders through his t-shirt as he walks; she can’t help but think that maybe she didn’t really buy all that lace for him, necessarily, but for herself; so she could pull them on a feel a little bit more confident about what she's doing and what she wants.

But then Tom’s coming back with a box and there’s the greasy, cheesy smell of pizza as he drops back down on the couch, pulling Sofie back into him, his hand tucking under her knee, spread over the back of her thigh when she leans against him.

With a small smile as she takes the offered slice, Sofie thinks lace really doesn’t matter at all.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

* * *

Chapter Nine

* * *

 

 

.

.

                Their shoes pound over the pavement, heartbeats quick and strong in their chests, paces even, a well-learnt rhythm in the fall of their feet.

The sun burns up over the Reservoir; water pink and then orange as dawn shifts into day and the world feels a little less  _theirs_  as the city stretches away from the  _other_  it becomes after nightfall and yawns into the bustle of a living thing.

 

                They slow to a walk as the park turns into roads and into the Museum Mile; breathing slowing, skin sweaty with that well-earned sheen of a body in motion.

“Bluestone?” Tom asks, drawing in a deeper breath to try to slow his heart rate more.

“Don’t you have to get into the precinct?” Sofie plucks at her shirt front, trying to cool herself down.

“We’ve got time, I’ll go in for ten.” He shrugs, walking slower to keep in line with Sofie’s shorter legs. “We could grab breakfast there, we haven’t been in…”

“Last year,” Sofie fills in as his voice fades into trying to pinpoint a time, sidestepping a runner fiddling with their headphones. “Probably November, before… you know.”

The slow shift from what they were to what they are now. The months prior to that kiss when Tom was trying to separate the pieces of them he thought too entwined. The months after the kiss, when nothing felt right at all and time spent together was something near torture; weighted with should and shouldn’t. With the knowledge that they were teetering on the cliff edge and poised to lose it all.

“Yeah,” he nods, no need to elaborate. Sofie meets his eyes and her lips turn up at the corners, no words needed.

It’s a short walk down the road to Bluestone Lane, a café carved from white sandstone, nestled at the side of the Church of Heavenly Rest, it feels uniquely solitary compared to the many coffee shops across the city. They arrive to wide blue umbrellas being bloomed open over patio tables, a drink cart being wheeled out onto the stone patio, and a few early risers already trailing out, coffees in one hand, phones in the other.

Dropping into one of the round, stark white tables Sofie stretches her legs beneath the table, bumping Tom’s as his long legs straighten out. Neither one bothers separating.

The fresh smell of coffee coats the air; a warm wake-up call that perks up the mind on every inhale. The waitress wanders over to them, her notepad ready, her smile crisp if a little shallow at the edges, sleep not long gone.

Sofie’s stomach growls with a deep twinge of an empty belly as they order; juice, coffee, Greek yogurt and granola, healthy enough to fill them without weighing down the post-run high still in their limbs.

The waitress returns with their drinks, Tom’s coffee steaming, bringing more of that caffeine smell with it.

Sofie feels her face twist as she takes a sip of her juice, sour and bitter before it fades sweeter. Tom watches her reaction with an amused tilt to his mouth, reaching out to steal the cup from her fingers, mouth closing over the straw as Sofie waits for his reaction to the burst of grapefruit and ginger, mellowed out by pineapple.

He swallows, a little cough before he hands it back. “Well, that’s…”

“Different,” she laughs, taking another sip, feeling the sour before the sweet as it travels over her tongue. “Good but…”

“Potent,” he finishes, taking a swallow of his coffee. “I’ll stick to caffeine to wake me up.”

“You would,” Sofie laughs.

Tom’s mouth opens to reply, lips quirked but the waitress returns, their simple breakfast a quick thing to put together; Sofie silently thankful, that growl in her stomach rolling again at the sight of food.

The waitress parts with a brighter  _enjoy!_  and Tom and Sofie descend on their breakfast without another word. A noise breaks her throat, fruit bursting on her tongue.

“So good,” her tongue chases the white yogurt off her spoon, the tang bright over her taste buds. He watches her, eyes pale in the early morning light, hair tugged over one side from his hand running through it, eyes flicking down to her mouth and then away. Sofie feels a flood of warmth from how he looks, at ease in the chair, nearly too big for it, shoulders broad, arms thick, skin still a bit shiny from sweat, black shirt damp and sitting against his skin. Sofie swallows, her teeth dragging over her lip, pulling sweetness.

 _“Sofie,”_ he warns, eyes heavy and moving over her face, darting to her mouth again.

“What?” she says innocently, squirming in the stiff chair.

“Stop—” his phone chimes and Sofie feels her heart sink a little, his gaze breaking away as he shifts, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He thumb moves over the screen, the device small in his palm.

“You have that dinner with your grandparents tonight,” he fills the momentary silence, lifting his cup to take another swallow of coffee.

“Which—” but Sofie remembers before she finishes the sentence. The Parkers, away on a trip these last few weeks, called her mother a week ago to make plans to take Sofie out for her birthday when they got back.

She realises the noise must have been an event notification because he sets his phone on the table and makes no indication they need to leave. His eyes return to her, hand wide on the coffee cup, the other pulling through his hair, mussing it all over again.

It’s an awkward moment where their relationship blurs, where the reminder on his phone being passed along to her is one of a father telling a daughter, a reminder of family, of all that connects them together.

A reminder that stands in stark contrast to the look passed between them seconds ago; Sofie wonders what he was going to say,  _stop what?_

“Tom.”

The name falls between them, nothing but the smell of coffee and the noise of the city around them.

His lips twitch, and then he laughs once, a sharp noise like a caught disbelief as if it took him a moment to realise Sofie said his name and not something else.

She drops her head in her hands, cheeks colouring as she laughs, brief and airy; something ridiculous about the whole thing, about how hard it is to say  _Tom_  instead of  _Dad_. No idea why it’s so difficult to use his name even when looking at him. Even when she knows she should because she knows him as a man now, his tongue and his hands and—

“It’s so weird,” she groans, voice muffled into her palms.

“It is,” he chuckles, and Sofie peaks out at him, his gaze still steady on her, eyes lighter, but something beneath it likes he’s imagining the same thing she is.

Which is all skin and voices; his name twisting sweetly from her mouth on a gasp turning moan turning sounds coated in pleasure.

He leans sideways, one elbow on the arm of the chair, fingers rubbing over his mouth, humour fading as their eyes meet. Sofie feels her heart trip in her chest, wonders if she’ll ever get used to him looking at her like this; or if he even knows he’s doing it.

If she’s even seeing it right and it’s not just wishful thinking.

“Tom,” quieter, less three letters than it is a promise of things to come, of whatever lies ahead for them, something just a bit  _more_  than they are now.

“You guys enjoying everything, more coffee?” the waitress interrupts, her face cheerful, Tom sits straighter with something near a jolt, scratches his jaw and nods, eyes downcast.

The waitress refills his cup and the moment breaks, roles shift back into what they are now, caught in between  _was_  and  _will be._  

“You should probably text them later and clarify the time,” he says after the waitress leaves.

The coffee steams lightly between them, Sofie scoops up another spoonful of yogurt, the raspberries smearing red along the side of the bowl. Her mind still rolling around bed sheets, the weight of hands on her skin.

“You aren’t coming?” Sofie asks around her mouthful, brows sinking together.

Tom shakes his head, scraping up the last of his breakfast. “No, I’ll probably still be working.”

“We could go later though,” she offers. Not that she doesn’t like the Parkers, but she sees them less and while they’re decidedly less…uptight than the Rowens…Sofie always feels a bit awkward; well aware there is a gaping hole at her side in the shape of their son even though the spot is more than adequately filled.

 _Right_ , she thinks…that’s probably _why_ Tom doesn’t want to go.

She knows she shouldn’t be so unwilling, it’s understandable that they want to talk about her father, but Sofie always feels torn between loyalties, a  _father_  versus a  _dad_.

Her Grandma always wants to share stories or pictures, and there are always moments where Sofie wonders if she sees her or just that there  are pieces of her that are an inheritance from a dead man. Dead son.

There’s a short silence, Sofie feels stuck between reassuring him that he’s her  _dad_  in all the ways that matter and not bringing up the fact that last night he watched her touch herself and then came on her back for the sheer _sight_ of it.

Her body shivers, remembers the hot warmth of it on her skin; wishes he had let her roll over and touch him the way she wanted to. To wrap a hand around him, to feel the weight of his cock in her palm and see if it’s as big as it felt every time her hips rolled back into his lap.

She desperately wants to touch him.

Or at least get a  _look_  at him.  _Naked_ , preferably.

Sofie eats, lost in imagining him…and then her, maybe in the shower, a normal morning where they run, have breakfast, climb in the shower and then—

“We should shower together,” she blurts, her mouth on her straw, the tang of pineapple on her tongue. “When we get home.”

Tom twitches, his eyes darting off her to the tables around them, he shoulders tensing, a hand rubbing across his face as he lets out a little curse under his breath.

“No one’s listening,” but she lowers her voice anyway, a sudden fantasy turned into a whispered request. “Think about it, we’d be naked—”

”Jesus, Sof.” There’s a half humoured laugh caught in his palm, but he shakes his head.

“—and wet and—”

  _“Sofie,”_ his head tilts back, a rough noise tearing out of his throat. Tom rubs his eyes like he’s scrubbing out images and Sofie really hopes he’s thinking the same thing she is: slippery skin, steam, warm hands and hot water.

She grins, teeth catching her lip, watching his throat work, the flex of his biceps as he presses his hand over his eyes.

“Fucking _brutal,”_ he groans and then rights himself, sitting straighter, shifting in his seat. “New topic, please.”

Sofie laughs, tilting her head and thinking about asking if he’s turned on when chatter fills the quiet and a group of ladies settle into the table next to them, voices loud as they settle.

“Damn,” Sofie curses, her lip poking out in a pout.

Tom laughs, but his eyes stay heavy on her as she finishes her breakfast, Sofie may lick the spoon a few more times than she has any need to.

 

                Tom doesn’t think he’s ever been so aware of how much room there is in the house until the front door shuts behind them and Sofie looks up at him, surrounded by an empty home and the first thought in his head was that he could fuck her over any goddamn surface he wanted and she could be as loud—

Her foot touches the bottom step, her hand on the railing when she looks back at him, eyes green and bright as her mouth opens to say something; Tom steps closer, nudging her up the stairs, following behind her and biting back the urge he’s had all morning to peel off those running shorts and get better acquainted with her ass.

In her bedroom Sofie turns at the bathroom door, her eyes lit up, smile spreading wide as she pulls in a breath.

“Are we actually—”

It’s odd to forget how short she is until their standing toe to toe. Sofie’s neck tilts up as he steps closer, his hand on the doorknob to push it open behind her and back her in.

The bathroom is chilly and smells vaguely like a mix of Sofie’s hair and something vanilla, a little burner on the counter with melted wax in it. A small window over the tub that lets in a little natural light, Sofie’s hair shining as he walks her backwards.

His hands land on her hips, slipping up under the edge of her shirt, skin smooth when his thumbs caress over her hipbones and up over her stomach, feeling the flutter of her belly as her smile fades; mouth parting, tongue darting out to wet her lips.

It’s a lovely thing to see, watching that slow crawl of lust take over her face; for a moment he forgets what he’s doing, leaning down to steal a kiss, enjoying the little inhale she always lets loose right before their lips touch. It’s…sweet and far too innocent, but it never fails to spark through him, a fusion of arousal and heart tripping love.

His palm glides up her back, her shirt rising with it; Sofie rises on her toes to chase his mouth before he breaks the kiss and pulls her shirt up and over her head. Reaching for his shirt, her fingers twist into fabric, pushing it higher until she can’t get it any farther up; a noise in her throat when he straightens, pulling it off himself.

He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy the way she looks at him, the obvious path her eyes take over his chest and then lower, to the barely hidden swell of his cock beneath his shorts, her fingers skim along the hem, brushing over his hip.

 _Definitely_  can’t say he doesn’t consider letting her touch more of him, letting her ask, like he knows she will, to touch, to see, and then because it’s Sofie, she’ll ask him to touch her or do more and he’s never been able to deny her anything, so he will.

Imagines her hand trying to wrap around his cock, her tongue dragging over—

He catches her wrist, cock heavier, pulling her arm out from their bodies before leaning down to kiss her again, filthier for the thoughts in his head, lifting her arm to his shoulder; a shiver beneath his skin when her nails scratch lightly into the hair at the base of his skull.

His hands run over her sides; allows himself a moment to take her in, trailing his lips over her jaw, nipping at her shoulder to look down her back as his hands slip under the elasticized waistband of her shorts, palming her ass and giving into the urge to touch.

With his hands beneath the hem, he can see the start of plain black underwear, the swell of her bottom just beyond it. Tom lifts his hands only long enough to hook his thumbs over the shorts and push them down, biting back a groan for the way the sporty black thong curves around her cheeks, for how large his hands look when he splays his fingers wide, palming her and doing nothing more than groping.

Sofie squirms in his arms, her mouth warm on his shoulder, one of her hands slipping between them, reaching again for the hem of his shorts.

Tom reluctantly lets go of her ass, kissing her again, hard and quick before leaning back a little, lips inches apart, a smile quirking up one side of his mouth when she groans, frustration obvious on her face.

“Not nice, is it?” he asks, trying to ignore his own need, aching and throbbing at the sight of her half naked, wonders how wet she is, if she’s as slippery and smooth as she sounded the night before.

“What?” Sofie frowns, her lips swollen and enticing enough for him to press back in, to feel the heat in them, listen to that little breath one more time before stepping back with a grin that’s closer to fraying than entertained.

“Teasing someone,” he smiles, watching her blink before really understanding that he’s walking away, his own shower and his own hand calling.

 _“Da-Tom!”_ he hears her curse, can’t bite back the laugh as her head pops around the corner of her bathroom door, face flushed. “That was mean!”

“I wouldn’t make it into work today,  Sof.”

Sofie presses her lips together, the smile still sneaking out as she follows the meaning of his words. Tom forces himself to move, turning on his heel before he changes his mind and takes what she’s offering.

“I’m going to finger myself and pretend it’s you!” she calls out after him; Tom’s shoulder smacks into the frame of her door, Sofie laughs when he curses, forcing himself to continue on and not turn back to watch.

In the bathroom, his hand lingers on the door…it’s not that he doesn’t trust her, but… he locks the door all the same. Just in case.

The taps squeak and the water rushes out, heat rising as he strips his sweaty work-out clothes and steps under the spray.

He doesn’t bother lingering over it; working his cock with a rough hand, half a mind knowing he really does have to go to work. But by the time he comes his mind is well deep into a fantasy about showering with Sofie, about picking her up, her hair a dark gold slicked over her shoulders, her face flushed from steam and sex, his cock buried inside of her while she gives those little hitching breaths he’s so fond of; crying out  _Tom_  and  _Dad_ and  _ohgod_. He has to wrap a hand around himself again before he finishes the shower, his imagination too vivid, wondering if she’s thinking the same.

 

 

                Sofie leans out of her room when she hears him in the hallway, with her hair knotted in a towel, another wrapped around her body she watches him pass, his hands on his tie, knotting it absently.

“Good shower?” she asks with a bratty air, enjoying the way his eyes move over her.  He leans down as he passes, a quick kiss that somehow still manages to take her breath away as he heads down the stairs.

“Lonely."

“Well, whose fault is that, huh?” she snipes, frustrated and wanting but warmed by the roguish look on his face at the bottom of the stairs.

“Definitely yours,” he sends back, clipping his badge and gun to his belt, his eyes on her. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” she sighs, watching him look over her one more time before he shakes his head, muttering something and heading out the door.

Sofie blows out a breath, dropping her head against the doorframe, a warmth in between her hips undimmed by her own fingers; she curses, eyes closing.

“I’m gonna give myself carpal tunnel.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

                He brings coffees, a pastry for Marcus who eyes him skeptically.

“Who are you?”

“What?” Tom drops into his chair, leaning back, a smile on his face he can’t hold back. He tried in the car, caught himself in the mirror and schooled his expression, but felt the smile creep back moments later.

“You’re never late,” he squints an eye. “And you’re smiling, like…a lot.”

“I had a good morning,” he shrugs. “Sof and I went for a run and then had breakfast at Bluestone.”

“It’s ten, like ten  _a.m.,_ ” Decker frowns, listening in as he takes his own coffee from Tom’s offered trays.

“They’re disgustingly fit,” Baylor drawls, her coffee steaming under her nose, eyes heavy. “While they’re sweating I’m struggling to put socks on. If I’m lucky, they might even match.”

Laughing, Tom leans back further, stretching his legs out and trying again to quell the smile. “It’s just habit, usually it's closer to five, seeing as I work by eight and Sofie has school so…you know…it works for us.”

“Yeah, _nope_ ,” Baylor drags it out, as Decker blinks, wide-eyed.

“ _Five?_ ” he shakes his head. “Man, that’s like, a time you should only see if you have to, like for murder or high treason _._ ”

“High treason,” Marcus laughs, eyebrows lifting. “What is this, Tom Clancy?”

“I’m just saying, five a.m. should not exist as an everyday time, it’s a nightmare time.”

The quiet dark of five a.m. is something he used to find relaxing, a solitary time, just him, his thoughts, the pavement and the thud of his pulse. It’s still the same, but it’s different with Sofie—

He thinks about the house just prior to dawn on the mornings he wakes her up with him, (not how they have these last few days, wrapped up around each other) but  _before_ , when he used to dress in the pale blue tint before the sun rose, sinking down the stairs of a silent house to wake Sofie up, chase sleep with a finger over her cheek, pink and creased from her pillow, her lashes dark, mouth all soft before she stretches out; the  _dad_  tumbling out and breaking the quiet—

And fuck, how did he never realise that he loved her too much?

“It’s just about getting into a routine,” Tom offers, chasing away his own thoughts.

“Or,” Baylor parries, a smirk on her mouth. “You could quit showing us all up and be a fat, lazy mortal like the rest of your cop brethren.”

“Hey,” Marcus laughs. “I work out. Just not at—”

 _“Mornin'!”_ The Watch Sargent approaches their desks, a sheet of paper in one hand. “Got a call in a few minutes ago, thought it might interest you lot.”

They wait, knowing Mercer likes to make sure everyone is listening.

“Call came in for a DB over on 3rd and 128th, preliminaries say it’s a mugging gone bad, but from the description, I think it might be a known face, hard to tell with the grunts, you know how gung-ho they are about  _good guys_  vs. _bad guys._  Language use says they knew the face, probably been arrested a few times, haven’t gotten a solid I.D. yet.”

Tom looks at Marcus, who stuffs the last bit of his Danish in his mouth and pushes to his feet.

“We’ll take it,” Tom nods and grabs his coffee, heading out of the precinct. Baylor calling after him,  _let me know what you got!_

 

 

  
 

                Sofie sits on the bottom step of the stairs, fingers drumming absently on her cheek, chin in her palm, elbow digging into her leg, waiting on the Parkers to arrive.

She glances at her phone, her last text unanswered, which means he’s busy; so she should leave it—

> S: Are you sure you can’t come later?

 

She regrets it almost as soon as it sends; but it’s there, staring at her on the screen, so she sighs and drops her chin back into her palm, feeling stupid and annoying.

Her phone buzzes against her thigh, a light chime in the silence around her.

 

> T: Probably be working late, someone made me late this morning.

 

Sofie smiles at the screen, typing back:

> S:So weird, you’re never late.
> 
> T:Marcus nearly had an APB put out.

 

She laughs, can imagine their faces when Tom’s desk was still empty at nine; all of them staring at it and blinking, thinking the world must be ending.

And he was late for  _her._ She laughs again, a thrill to realise, bright and bursting inside of her.

>  T: Heading into the morgue, probably lose my signal. Talk later.

 

Sofie doesn’t bother typing back, her head jolting up at the sound of the doorbell, fumbling her phone and tucking into the pocket of her jean jacket, adjusting the climbing seam of her romper as it tries valiantly to wedge up her bum.

Kicking her feet into sneakers, Sofie pulls the door open and gets swallowed by a hug.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

5:15 - They want us to come to a barbeque at the end of summer, apparently mom never wants to go?

 

5:26 - Grandpa Charlie really likes you, I think he wanted you to come… #1 fan

 

5:28-  Fun Fact: I have a thousand uncles.

 

5:30- Okay, like six. But still.

 

5:50- Uncle Pat says “Tell the giant I said hey and that the 19th sucks.”

 

6:00- I’m actually allowed a drink, not sure how they managed that.

 

6:01 -I think we have mob connections, the owner looks like Don Corleone.

 

6:06- oh there’s a cigar. Deffo Mob family.

 

She doesn’t expect an answer but thinks he’ll enjoy the play by play whenever he does get the texts.

 

 

 

 

Tom leaves the morgue at six thirty, a headache settling behind his eyes, Marcus phone ringing as his own sounds off with a series of missed texts pushing through as they clear the last step out of the basement.

His eyes scan the messages, biting back a laugh as he reads them, snorting at the Godfather reference, so he types back:

> T: Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.

 

The phone pings seconds later.

> S:ha, that was good.
> 
> T:Thank you. How’s it going?
> 
> S: it’s good, The Uncles are loud but nice. Parkers sure can drink.
> 
> T: cops, it’s how we do.
> 
> S: lol
> 
> T: what time you thinking you’ll be—

 

He stops, deleting the text, doesn’t want her to think he’s going home to wait for her, to make her think she has to end the night sooner just because he’s there.

Doesn’t want her to think that he wants her to come home with him now, even though he does.

> S:we’re just ordering dessert, I’m thinking an ETA of eight?

 

He huffs a laugh, glad he didn’t have to bring it up, wondering if she knew that’s what he wanted to know or if she was just keeping him updated.

> T: alright, sounds good. Tell your grandparents I said hi.
> 
> S: okay, see you in a bit

 

Marcus is finishing up a phone call when Tom looks up, tucking his phone back into his pocket as they cross the parking lot.

“Wanna go grab a drink?” Marcus asks, unbuttoning his jacket, the evening warm and muggy.

Tom thinks about what he was going to do, which was head home, shower and change; grab a drink, plop his ass on the couch and wait for Sofie.

But, that’s all a little sad, thirty-five and waiting on his sixteen-year-old…whatever she is now, to get home so he can—

“Yeah,” he nods, shoving the thoughts away. “One drink, why not.”

               

 

 

                He gets home an hour later, one drink warm in his belly, the house dark; peels off his tie as he climbs the stairs, mind on having a shower the smell of smoke on him, beer on his tongue and the lingering chemical smell of a morgue beneath it.

He strips, the water filling the silence; an itch in his body, the back of his mind that’s been there for days, weeks…months, probably. Ever since that first dream, since he saw the flicker of a flush on Sofie’s face, something offered behind her eyes he didn’t know he even wanted.

And now it feels nearly overwhelming.

With his cock half hard already he wonders how it’s possible to be so affected by her all the time. A thought, a touch, a look…it’s almost fucking pathetic.

It would be, he thinks. If he didn’t love her so much.

He curls his hand around his cock, knowing Sofie’s due in any time now. Needs a quick relief, a quick perverted fantasy filled with his girl’s voice.

Imagines her riding him, legs braced over his lap, ass in his hands and guiding her, leading her through it. His voice in her ear, her breathing winding up as her body does,  _there you go, Sof.You’re doing so good._

 

 

 

 

                There’s the sound of the front door opening as he’s pulling on cotton pants, skin still damp.

“Sof?” he calls, not bothering with a shirt, he scrubs the towel over his hair, padding through the hall and down the stairs.

“Hey, Dad,” Sofie’s voice sounds hesitant and stilted. “Grandpa—”

“Hello, son,” Charles' voice sets his spine a little straighter and he bites back a curse, pulling the towel away from his head and hoping that—

_Damn it._

“Thomas,” Anna Parker greets, standing beside a red-cheeked Sofie, who is steadfastly not looking at him, though he takes half a second to wonder if the flush is because he sees her eyes flicker over him or if it’s from the party.

She looks adorable, he doesn’t know if it’s the blush or the outfit which is kind of short, but—

He shoves the thought away, throwing the towel over his shoulder, and running a hand through his hair to try to tame it. Regretting not grabbing a shirt quite vividly as Anna looks him over.

“Hello, Charlie, Anna,” Tom takes Charles offered hand, the older man pulling him in for a clap on the back, still very much one of those  _cops are family_  kind of men, and Tom knows the retired officer holds a fair amount of admiration for the lengths that Tom has come since they first met.

“We can’t stay long,” Anna says quietly, her hand rubbing over Sofie’s arm lightly. “We’ve got Patrick in the car, a little tipsy, I’m afraid.”

“Thanks for the dinner, Gramma,” Sofie smiles, turning to hug her, Tom turns his eyes away, doesn’t want to risk looking at her ass.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart. Tell your mother you simply have to come this year, we would absolutely love to get everyone together for it.”

Sofie nods, stepping back from the embrace and turning to hug Charles, who wishes her another happy birthday and passes her the bag he was holding at his side, a gift bag by the looks of it.

“Would you give me and your Dad a minute, Sofie?” Charles asks; Tom does not miss the little twitch in Anna’s eye at Charles casual use of  _Dad_  in reference to Tom.

Sofie glances back at him, but nods, slipping off her shoes and heading up the stairs on quiet pats of her bare feet.

“I’m should go check on Patrick,” Anna states, her eyes shifting over Tom again, her mouth tight before she turns, the door clicking shut quietly.

“I apologise,” Charles huffs a laugh, one thick shoulder shifting in a shrug. “Annie is still…”

“It's fine,” Tom offers, knowing there’s no other word to use but  _bitter_ or  _grieving_ or even more likely:  _resentful._  Tom stepped into her son’s life, took his wife, and then his daughter, who started calling him Daddy barely two years after she put her son in the ground…who now knows Joshua only in pictures, ( _a man I don’t even remember,_ Sofie had said.)

He can understand why Anna has never been able to handle spending much time with him; can imagine hearing Sofie call him Dad would be something very akin to a knife in her womb.

_(I know who my father is, I know who my Dad is.)_

He swallows, something sour in his throat; the past a corrosive little bubble.

“It’s not,” Charles shrugs again, still a thick man, though rounded slightly by age and food. “But she’s always been a stubborn old lady, serves her well mostly.” He huffs another laugh, shifting on his feet before speaking again.

“I heard Calder’s been about town.”

Tom nods, not overly surprised Charles has heard; imagines he still has a fair few connections in uniform and behind desks.

“Back for a few months now, there’s been some activity on the streets, known dealers cut loose, others removed. Looks like he’s setting up shop, but so far he’s been rather quiet, a few functions, some charity events; playing the good citizen like he did last time.”

“I know you never wanted that deal,” Charles states, his eyes steady on Tom’s; and beneath the wrinkles, the grey hair, Tom can see the detective he was, still lingering. That  _don’t bullshit me, kid. I know._

“I understand why we made it,” Tom offers instead, the subject not one he really wants to get into, not with Sofie in the house and probably listening in. If he knows her.

And he does.

A moment of silence, like they’re back in that interrogation room, looking at a shark through a mirror, his hands folded in front of him, while three men stand behind glass, weighing names.

Weighing sins against sons.

Charles nods and then rubs his jaw. “If you ever want any help, feel free to pick my mind, I’d like to be involved.”

“Of course, I’ll keep you informed,” it’s not a terrible idea, in truth; Charles did know Calder’s comings and goings like the back of his hand fourteen years ago.

“Not going to lie,” Charles laughs roughly. “I had hoped he was dead.”

“You and me both,” Tom agrees, shoulders easing.

“Right,” he says. “I should go, don’t need to make the old lady any angrier with me.”

“Good luck,” Tom forces a smile. Doesn’t even want to imagine what Anna Parker would be like angry.

Charles holds out his hand, his eyes steady.

“I just wanted to say thank you, as well. I’ve never… we’ve never said so, but Sofie’s turned into an amazing girl, and as much as I love my son, I don’t think she’d be what she is today if it weren’t for you,” he chuckles, a smile flitting wide with humour as Tom takes his hand, willing it steady.

Willing his stomach to stay down.

“At the restaurant she showed us some of the things you taught her, managed to get Nick in a headlock for a solid chunk of time, and Nick is a pretty big guy.”

 _(_ Sofie’s body winding, her hand between her legs, his cum on her back,  _Dad dad_ —)

“So thank you, for raising her, for being there for her. I can’t…” he clears his throat. “I can’t tell you how much it means to us, that you’ve taken such good care of her.”

Tom feels like choking, like there's bile, hot in his throat. He nods, taking Charles hand in his, a firm shake, Sofie behind his eyes her mouth swollen from his, asking him to kiss her.

“That’s just her,” he forces out. “It’s all Sofie, not me.”

Charles grins, eyes damp, nodding. “Yeah,” he nods. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

Their hands separate; Tom folding his arms to hide the tremor he’s afraid might lie in them. The unbound anger and rage twisting alongside self-disgust: moments ago he came to the thought of fucking his—

“I don’t need a thank you—”

“Just accept it, son. It’s from both of us, I know Annie may never say it, but she sees it. It’s impossible to miss how much you too love each other.”

His—

His fucking  _everything._

“You’re welcome.”  

_To everyone else, we’re still TomandSofie._

“I should get going, I’ll touch base with you about Calder soon.” He heads out, a quiet goodnight before the door clicks shut.

_But sometimes, when the door shuts, we get to be a naked Tom and Sofie too._

His stomach rolls violently, he’s in the study and pouring himself a drink before he realises that it’s alcohol burning down his throat and not bile. Anger roiling in his blood, unabated.

Fucking _thanking_ him for raising her when he’s no better than molest—

Another shot of scotch and the glass creaks in his grip, a part of him angry at Sofie too, for being so—

For being so stupid and so young and loving him when she shouldn’t. For wanting him when she should know better, for being who she is and what she is. For being sixteen to his thirty-five, for being so—

So fucking  _perfect_.

The glass shatters against the wall, leaving his hand on a flood of rage and doing nothing to dampen it. He stares at the shards, the wet dent on the wall until it blurs.

Sinking into the couch, Tom itches for a cigarette. For violence. Wants to meet himself in a dark alley and tear himself  apart until there’s nothing recognizable left.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but a headache ricochets around his skull, the house quiet and far away. His mind rolling over the last twelve years, picking them apart, tearing through these last few days and weighing them, wondering if he has it in him to end it, if he could survive—

His throat tightens, eyes heating, breathing uneven at even the fucking _thought._

He knows he couldn’t, can’t bear the mere idea. Can’t give it up. Can’t give her up. Can’t unlearn her skin, her touch, that little hitching breath before a kiss.

 _God_ , he thinks,  _love is_   _unbearable_.

 

 

                The couch shifts beside him, a cold glass touches his hand, small fingers pressing two pills into his other hand and then waiting. Tom keeps his eyes closed, head tilted back against the couch, lifting it only to swallow the water and the pills before Sofie takes the glass back; the low clink of it hitting the table.

There’s silence and then Sofie shifts, straddling his lap, her hands running over his shoulders, down his arms, curling around his hands and moving them, guiding them along her thighs and around, fingers inching up under the hem of her shorts, fingers brushing lace as her hands press down, a silent instruction to  _stay_.

Sofie wiggles closer, and he can’t stop the flicker of his hands, the warmth spreading through him at the feel of her in his lap.

Her hand slide over his forearms, over his biceps, a slow caress over his shoulders, palms warm; her fingers to the back of his neck, sinking into the short hair at his nape.

He feels her lean forward, her mouth touches his clavicle, his throat, lips soft and damp over his Adam’s apple, ghosting along his jaw.

“I love you,” she whispers, her voice soft and warm; a conviction.

A kiss to cheek, less a kiss really, than it is her lips gliding over skin. “Please don’t push me away.”

 _Oh, Sofie,_  he thinks, his throat tight, a pain like a knife at his jugular, another in his ribs.

“Please,” her voice breaks a little and he wraps her up, pulling her closer, no words, no breath to tell her he couldn’t push her away even if he really wanted to.

That he’s weak and he loves her and it’s all so fucking unbearable.

Her fingers slip higher along his scalp, up into his hair to pull his head down to hers, her feet tucking over his thighs to rise up a little higher off his lap, to press her lips against his with all the urgency of someone desperate, like she thinks she might never get another chance.

He can’t—

He shifts one arm heavy on her waist to hold her close, the other cupping the back of her neck, stealing her breath the way she so easily takes his.

That little hitch, between their lips, lost to damp air caught between mouths.

Their eyes meet, and it’s painful to see them all wet and bright with fear and sadness. “I can’t—”

Her face crumbles and he realises that she’s taking his words wrong; so he kisses her or tries to, her breath hitching wetly, not anything near that sweet little noise he loves.

“No, baby, I mean I can’t push you away,” he cups her cheek, one large hand over the side of her face, thumb stroking through the wet shine beneath her eyes.

Her mouth red and pouty, eyes so green he swears their unnatural; eyelashes clumped and shiny with tears as she blinks, trying to understand.

God, but she’s devastating.

He catches her mouth again, her hands twisting in his hair, an eager little inhale out of her throat as the kiss deepens, messy and perfect for the way it feels like  _need_  and not just  _want_.

They break away again, she swallows, eyes moving over his face. “I’m sorry, I thought you…you broke a glass and I heard…”

“I—”  _freaked out. Feel like a criminal. Am_ actually _a criminal._  “It’s hard, Sof, justifying loving you.”

“You don’t need to justify it, though,” her hands slide over his neck, warm and a little unsteady, smoothing over his chest, her eyes following. “It’s just me and you.”

“And my conscience.”

“Tell Jiminy Cricket to fuck off, then,” her lips fall short of a smile, a brief tick up like she’s trying for humour but it gets lost along the way.

“I would if I could,” he tugs her closer, though there isn’t really any space at all between them. “Please don’t think I’m going to leave every time I freak out.”

“How about you don’t freak out?” her voice is tilting into sarcastic, her eyes flicking up to his.

He laughs, short and rough. “I’ll do my best.”

“Why did you?” she shifts in his lap, sitting back on his thighs, her hands moving down his chest, eyes sinking down. “Get angry, I mean?”

He’s reminded of his thought from earlier, and he settles back a little, looking over her, the pale pink romper, her hair down and a tangled mess down her back, lips all swollen and red, from crying and from his mouth.

“Because I knew that I was going to keep touching you when I shouldn’t be,” he says low and warm; and  _there_ , a flicker of a smile.

He runs his hands up her thighs, fingertips sinking under the hem of the material, which sits so high it may as well be underwear.

“You look stupid cute,” he blurts and then curses himself for such a stupid way of saying it.

Sofie’s head rises from where she was watching his hands to his face and she laughs, rolling her eyes at him.

“Yeah,  _cute_ ,” she sighs dismissively and he narrows his eyes at her, considering her tone.

“And pretty,” He skims along her thighs, pulling her closer. “And gorgeous." His fingers slip under the hem along the curve of her hips, down and around to her bottom. “And beautiful.”

Her eyes warm as her face does; he pulls her closer, hands spreading wide on her ass and palming her cheeks.

“Do you want to know the worst part?”

Sofie nods, a roll of her hips, the unavoidable feeling of his cock hardening, pressing warmly against her through the thin layers of their clothing.

“I jerked off literally right before you walked in the door.”

Sofie blinks and then she laughs, her head tilting back, her cheeks red when she comes back down, dimples deadly and deep.

“Did you think about me?”

“I did.”

“What did you imagine?” her head tilts, face not anywhere near innocent.

He thinks about lying, saying  _just you,_  but he thinks about the look she got this morning when it was so obvious she was picturing them in the shower; he’d like to see that look again.

Pulling her closer with his hands still cupped on her ass, he squeezes her unfairly wonderful ass and makes sure she feels his cock before lifting her, just slightly, off his lap and bringing her back down.

Her mouth parts, her hands braced on his chest, a fucking terrible tease of exactly how it would be.

“This actually, nearly exactly,” his voice is quiet, rough; the fantasies from earlier returning, more vivid for the sight and feel of her actually in his lap.

He lifts her again, Sofie rocking forward like she really is riding him, her mouth open, eyelashes fanning out on her cheeks as she looks down, watching their bodies move.

Unable to help himself, he reaches up with one hand, fingers curling around the strap of her romper, pulling it down; Sofie looks up at him through her lashes, her hips shifting, but his hand, on the bottom curve of her ass keeps her just off his cock.

She reaches for the other side, slipping it off her shoulder; the romper falls lower, and it’s clear she isn’t wearing a bra, the fabric resting just over the soft curve of her breasts. Tom pulls it down, cotton sliding off pooling at her waist.

 But he sees the embarrassment settle on her face even while her eyes stay on him, determined to not cover herself like he thinks she wants to.

He pulls her up, hand still tight on her ass, fingers digging in, knees spread wide over his lap; it brings her only slightly above him, his mouth to her jaw, ducking down to kiss lower, tilting her back, his hand wide over her back, holding her there as he kisses down her sternum before catching one of those sweet, pink nipples in his mouth.

Sofie shivers, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails scratching in.

With his tongue flicking over it, he feels her body squirm, hands digging into his muscles the longer he worries her nipple, moving on to the other, kissing across her chest before teasing that one as well.

Her breath hitches, spine shifting. His teeth scrape lightly over the nub and Sofie whimpers; her nails digging deeper.

Tom leans back, thumb rubbing over one wet nipple, spreading the shine of his spit. “Will you touch yourself for me, Sof?”

Sofie blinks, trying to focus on what he asked, so he takes her hand from its hold on his shoulder, tucking her fingers down the pool of fabric at her waist, her stomach shifting against his fingers, skin soft as he pushes her hand down.

“I want  _you_  to touch me.”

And if that isn’t a pout he’ll be goddamned, can’t stop the crooked smile at the near petulant way she says it. “I will. Soon,” he pulls her in for a kiss, nipping at her lip. “Just not yet.”

She huffs, but her hand shifts lower and Tom pushes her back until she’s sitting on his thighs, wants to watch all of her… or most of her, minus the sight of her hand and her sex lost beneath the pooled fabric of her romper.

 

                Her fingers slip under the band of her underwear, slippery and warm when she brushes them over herself, a slow pass over her clit before she uses three fingers and circles it, her body jolting as the feeling floods her body, a flare of heat, a tingle of nerves, twice as much as normal for the way Tom watches her, mouth parted, chest moving as he breathes too quickly; his eyes dark and weighted, looking frayed and barely containd.

She thinks about dragging it out, about teasing him, but she can’t get her fingers inside herself at this angle, so she rubs herself steadily, focuses on her clit, enjoying the nearly too much electric, hot itch as her body hits with every direct flick of her finger over it.

His hand clenches on her ass, rough and bruising, leaning forward to catch her nipple in his mouth again, Sofie curses, her hand rubbing harder, spine rolling tighter as the warmth of her orgasm rolls closer.

His tongue is wet and warm and he sucks and nips, teeth sharp before his tongue chases the sting, kissing up her neck and back down, mouth hungry, both hands on her ass now, gripping on, feeling her writhe against in his lap. Wishing he would pull her closer so she could grind over his dick, or even better, pull it out and let her ride it, just like they’ve both fantasised about.

She desperately wants that.

“I—” she breaks off, body twitching, thighs clenching. “Oh— oh  _g_ —”

She breaks apart, condensing inward. Tom pulls her against his chest, holding her against him as she quivers and shakes, her fingers tucked tightly against herself, body and mind lost to pleasure and twitches. She barely registers him beneath her, to lost to her body; some distant part of her aware that he sinks lower on the couch, one arm shifting beneath her ass and holding her off his lap.... hit other arm moving, rough pumps that jolt behind her, his fist knocking against her ass every few seconds.

His head tucks into her shoulder, breathing heavy, Sofie too lost to her own aftershocks to complain about not getting to touch him  _again._

She’s nearly positive that his cock touches her ass, his cum stripping over her lower back, his hips twitching up, a cutoff groan pressed into her shoulder as his mouth latches on, teeth scraping before he sucks, hard. Sofie’s knows it will leave a mark.

As they descend from the cloud of euphoria that fogs the mind post orgasm, Sofie’s half aware of Tom tucking himself back in his pants, his forearm sliding out from under her bottom, but his hand returning, just resting against it, tucked under the fabric of her clothing. His head falls back against the couch and Sofie drops her head to his neck as she sags boneless against him.

His cum cools rapidly, an odd weight on her skin; she isn’t sure she entirely minds it.

Can’t find it in herself to move, enjoys the amount of skin they have pressed together, the hard planes of his chest to her slightly softer curves, and by the feel of it, he doesn’t mind either. His other hand plays absently with her hair, pulling it to the side and away from her back and the sticky white mess against the base of her spine.

“I brought you a cannoli,” she mumbles, breath puffing damp against his neck.

Beneath her, Tom laughs, full chested and deep.

Shifting forward, Tom stands like she’s nothing to hold, which, she should already know, but it’s still surprising how fluidly he rises from the couch, hands tightening on her ass as her legs curve around him.

Sofie leans back to look at him, a crooked grin on his face, eyes bright as he starts to walk them upstairs.

“Did you?”

“I did,” a grin breaking out; the earlier worry and fear long gone, replaced only by that whole body warmth of love she feels when he looks at her the way he is right now.

Like he nearly can’t believe she’s real.

 

In her room, Tom chases the sugar from her lips with his tongue, smiling against her mouth, laughter blurring into a kiss.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

* * *

Chapter Ten

* * *

 

 

 

 

                “Your mom comes back today,” she feels his words more than hears them, a deep roll out from his chest where her ear is pressed, her cheek warmed by his skin, half on top of him. Nearly exactly how they woke up. Her head resting on his pectoral, his heart and pulse resonating slowly, an ocean buried beneath skin.

Sofie knows this already, has been dreading the day; her finger traces along the swells of his muscles across his chest, down over his ribs, the hard plane of his stomach, her fingers dipping lower occasionally, watching the shift of his muscles when her fingers ghost along his hips, brushing the waistband of his boxer briefs.

It’s still early, later than they normally sleep, at least an hour since she squirmed, all limbs and half-asleep, across him and smacked the off switch on the alarm.

The sunlight a bright, fresh yellow as they lie in bed; Sofie, because she wants to stay half naked with him, some tendril of fear still in her belly that once Lise crosses that threshold the…the absolute perfection of this last week will crumble under the weight of  _family._

Why he’s allowing the laziness, she isn’t sure. She can assume it’s something very similar to her own reasoning; there’s something a bit heavy sitting between them, like each of them, has things to say, but they aren’t sure how.

Tom’s fingers travel slowly along her side, from shoulder to ribs to the slope of her hip, brushing over the underwear he insisted she wore and would here none of her counterpoints.

His fingers follow the hem, the curve of her bottom, brushing along the swell of fat and muscle before moving back up.

It’s lazy and lethargic and Sofie thinks the only way it could be better was if they were naked. Or all breathless and sweaty from a post-fuck haze.

He says her name again, a warning in the rumble; her fingers slipping beneath fabric, inching along that ‘V’ she wants to travel with her mouth.

She slips her fingers a little lower and then pulls them back,  _no means no¸_ even when it’s just implied and not said directly; the way he says her name enough of a  _no_  for her.

Sofie sighs, wiggling against him and throwing her leg over his waist, ignoring the brief brush of a cloth covered iron bulge her thigh encounters on the way over his body, the spasm of his hand is enough of a satisfaction for now.

The pass too quick for her to get a proper feel of him other than  _big_ , a flare of heat that slicks her up imagining it; imagining  _him._  Has felt him enough times to know that he isn’t small, that he might be something closer to _huge_ , but she still thinks about rolling over him and bracing herself on his chest, sinking down and working herself onto him; his hands like they were last night, gripping onto her ass with a desperate urgency, guiding her body down as his hips shift up, unable to stay still.

“What time does her plane land?” she asks, spreading her hand out over his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath skin as well as in her ear.

“Six, but we should leave by four, the traffic will probably be brutal.”

Having nothing to say that isn’t something along the lines of  _please fuck me before she gets back,_ or  _please don’t let her ruin this,_  Sofie stays silent, the worry building as her mind revolves around that fear that won’t quite leave her be.

“Hey,” he says and then waits until she props her chin on his chest to look at him. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Sofie drops her head back down, wishing she felt more reassured. “You promise?”

He sits up, forcing Sofie to rise as well, their bodies untangling awkwardly, limbs all jumbled.

“I promise,” his hands cup her cheeks, eyes searching hers. “You and me,  Sof.”

She nods, taking in a deep breath. “You and me.”

“Now how about we go spar and sweat out some of this—”

“Sexual frustration?”

“Oh, are you frustrated? I’m totally fi—”

She reaches down and pinches his nipple, a grin spreading at his jolt and at the sharp upturn to his words as he laughs.

“You’re a dirty liar.”

Tom turns, pinning her down, the weight of his cock against her thigh as he smiles down at her. “Maybe a bit.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                “Fuck,” Sofie chokes out beneath him, flat on her back, her legs crossed and pushing against his chest, her back moving up the mat every few minutes as Tom bears down over her, trying to break the hold she has on his arm, pulled through her thighs and gripped in her hands.

It’s easy enough to shift away from any hits he may throw, her position allows her to shift or twist his arm enough to slow or throw off the angle of one of his punches that were more like warning-taps to mimic her getting hit.

Now it’s just about sheer size and weight versus leverage and hold. Exactly what he taught her.

He shoves down in a jolt, her back slides up the mat with a squeak but her grip doesn’t falter. He does it again, bracing an arm beside her head; his weight enough to shrink the distance between them; her teeth gritting as she pushes back, her face red from exertion.

He shoves again; her fingers slip, and he manages to pull back enough to rise up higher, lifting up to shove her back while her thighs try to lock around his arm again, hand scrabbling over his forearm.

 _Why is it so hot in here?_  He thinks, feeling a line of sweat drip over his temple.

“I have a question,” she grits out; knocks his braced hand out, his body falling heavily against hers, arm yanked back between her thighs, holding him close and low with no leverage but for his knees slipping on the mat.

“You’re supposed— _shit_ ,” he curses, trying to get leverage enough to just lift her off the ground. “—fighting, Sofie, not talking.”

Tom feels like he’s distracted and can’t get the control back; it’s slipping away like sweaty skin between his fingers.

Sofie's face is red, her body tense, her thighs quivering and stronger than he expected her to be able to hold this long’ he’s impressed and annoyingly, disgustingly _turned on._

“Right, but,” she forces out, as he gains another inch, knees coming up to press against her ass, trying to lift to dislodge her grip when she speaks again. “Did you forget to take your police baton out of your shorts?”

He freezes, blinks sweat out of his eyes.

“Because it’s either that or a baseball bat,” she teases lightly, if a bit winded, and then uses his distraction to press her ankles into the back of his neck and pull him lower, his face in her stomach.

“I mean, I don’t think concealing a deadly weapon is legal in New York, is it?” her stomach moves against his face, a laugh.

_Is she seriously talking about—?_

He scrapes his teeth over her belly, and Sofie jolts, laughter breaking out of her body in a rush as she shifts away from his mouth.

He gets his arm back, but her legs stay up, a barrier keeping him off of her. He leans forward, pushing down, folding her in half, his hands landing on either side of her head; knows there’s no hiding what she does to him.

She grins up at him, “Yeah—” she laughs, breathless. "Definitely a deadly weapon.”

"Stop—” 

“Honestly, I’m not so sure it’s gonna fit—”

_“Jesus—”_

She laughs, and lets her legs fall wider, her knees hooked over his shoulders, their faces inches apart, “Curious minds would like to know.”

He looks down at her, eyes bright, a devious sort of arousal, her lips quirked and breathing quick from something more than exertion.

 _Fine_ , he thinks,  _if this is how she wants to play. I’ll play._

Tom shifts forward enough to pull her hips into his lap, to press the hard, heavy, aching weight of his cock against her, right between her legs. His eyes fall into hers, and he knows he shouldn’t, knows he should pull away, but he says, voice rough, more sex than syllables:

“Anything I got, right Sof?”

Her mouth parts, surprise chased away by her eyes darkening as she nods, licking her lips, hips twitching and searching. “Anything you got.”

His hand bruises into her hip, caresses over her thigh, pulling her leg off his shoulder and guiding it to curve around his hip before sliding back up over her smooth, sweat-damp skin to curl underneath her body; up over the swell of her ass, watching her chest jerk as she lets out a sudden breath.

He leans forward, forearm braced by her head, their lips inches apart, hers parted and pink, breathing uneven, her eyes shifting over his face.

He looks down between them; how easy it is to imagine folding her in half just like this, imagines her naked and spread open, stretched around him, filled up and begging.

“It’s all yours,” he promises roughly and then he grinds. Hips rolling forward, palming her ass cheek with one wide hand, pulling her hips into his as he bears down. The iron filled length of his cock digging into the hot spread of her legs, the damp heat of her sex beneath shorts.

He knows he shouldn’t, but watching Sofie’s face go from aroused and wanting to craving and needy and all open is an addiction he didn’t know he had.

“Like this?” he asks, can’t stop the words, spurred on by the heat trapped between him, the images of peeling off her shorts and sinking inside of her. Can’t stop the words spilling out of him. “Is this what you wanted?”

“I want you to—to—” it gets lost in another hitch, her hips twitching, hands slipping over the back of his neck, scratching into the hair at the base of his skull. “I want—”

Her body stutters like it’s all too much, her head tilting back as her eyes close; spine rolling.

“Eyes on me, Sofie,” his thumb brushes the side of her temple, and Sofie blinks a whine in her throat, all caught and needy.

He grinds harder, his fingers bruising into the flesh of her ass, pulling her hips up into his with a rough, rolling urge, directing; cock throbbing, every inch of fabric between them too much and too little all at once. It’s obvious she’s wet, the material slipping too smoothly, her breathing too erratic.

He shifts a little higher, hips shifting forward every few grinds on a rougher shove, ones that make her ankle dig into his back, her voice breaking out.

“Oh _fuck,”_ her head drops back again, nails digging in, body one trembling little line of tension.

“You gotta be quiet.” He ducks his head, whispers it over her jaw, scraping teeth; a thought in the back of his head that he’s definitely going to come too, can feel it building up just from watching her, the little needy roll of her body against his.

“D—” She whimpers, her teeth dig into her lip, the name cut off, her chest hitching, her other hand slipping over his arm, gripping on and slipping in little jolts every time his hips shove forward. Her spine tightens; a nod, no words or breath to give them.

The leg over his shoulder presses against his neck, the one at his side shaking, curling tighter and urging their rhythm along. There’s a wet noise every few grinds, just audible over the sound of her breathing, his own pounding heart. The fabric between them slips and slides and the knowledge of just how wet she is, of how wet he’s making her, spills him closer and closer to the edge.

God, he wants to fuck her.

With his thumb brushing over her temple. “Look at me, Sofie.”

A rough, needy scrape over his neck, fingers knotting into his shirt, pulling. Her eyes open, face flushed, voice trapped behind the sharp edge of her teeth sunk into her lip.

“C’mon, Sofie, come for me,” he doesn’t think he could tear his eyes away for anything, watches the edge of her orgasm roll over her face, her thighs shaking as her hips twitch and he takes over, grinding harder, his own breath heavy, that wet noise all slick and dirty.

“Fuck—  _Da—,_ ” he cuts her off, his fingers sliding over her mouth, the pitch and quiver of her voice against them, his stomach clenches, a schism of wrong warring against the fucking satisfaction of watching her fall apart, thighs clenching, eyes closing, her body condensing, his hand sliding off her mouth as she shakes and quivers.

It’s impossible to not come after that, no matter how that name twists up his insides, there’s a wet warmth that’s soaking into the front of his shorts and turning that low wet sound into something dirtier and depraved, even slicker than before as he grinds, once, twice more and follows her into a sweaty, gasping oblivion.

There’s nothing at all, muscles tense and then ease. Her body beneath his is unstable and shaking, his own lost somewhere far away from his mind; his grip iron tight and desperate.

Her fingers scrape at his neck, up into his hair, dragging his mouth down to hers, a kiss still so full of want it makes him groan.

“That was fucking stupid,” he breaks their mouths apart, dropping his forehead to the cooler mat, feeling hot and sweat-soaked, the rapidly sticky mess between them is something he doesn’t he want to think about let alone deal with.

“And _amazing,”_ she laughs, all air, and then squirms, pushing at him until he rolls off her and she follows him over, straddling his waist. “And fucking hot and—”

She leans over him, her hands braced, her smile wicked, his stomach twisted up in knots for the sight of it, of _her._

“And  _wow,_ ” she gushes, laughing. He pulls her down for one more kiss, her smile breaking out against his mouth and he gives up with a laugh, shoving at her shoulder and Sofie flops off of him onto her back on the mat next to him with a sigh,

“Totally worth the mess,” she sighs, turning her head to look at him.

He just shakes his head, waiting for his heart to settle, to get his muscles back under control.

“Still shouldn’t have,” he states, voice rough.

The smile on her face flickers and he knows she’s taking his words wrong. He rolls over onto his side and kisses her slowly, filled up with everything he can’t put into words.

Her smile returns, softer than before; Tom looks down over her body, his hand sliding from her neck over her shoulder, down her side and splaying out over her thigh. It’s hard not to see the shine of wet skin between her legs, a slippery mess that he drags his thumb over, just at the hem of her shorts. He wants to drag his tongue over it, clean her up and then make her shake apart again, but he knows if he starts he won’t stop for hours.

“We should get cleaned up,” he says absently, voice quiet and rough. His thumb leaves a wet trail down her thigh, rubbing in a wide circle, eyes watching the shine of her arousal spread a little more.

“Probably,” she whispers but makes no effort to move.

His thumb rubs a little higher, slicked by her arousal it glides smoothly, the tip brushing over the wet inner curve of her thigh.

He bites back a noise, wants to peel off her shorts and see how fucking soaked she is but knows they have to get up and get going, that they only have a few more hours until Lise gets home, that they really, absolutely should not be doing this here.

“Our time’s up,” he forces out, watching his thumb leave a line down the inside of her leg, glad that they’re both wearing black, that his own mess is a cool, sticky mess on the inside and unnoticeable. “We need to get going…and shower, definitely.”

She laughs,  _yeah,_  a breathless little rush, her eyes warmed by the same undimmed lust he feels.

He forces himself up; can’t quell his own surge of satisfaction at watching the slightly unstable wobble to her legs, the laxity of her movements as she pushes to her feet as well, walking in front of him to the door her face twisting into a grimace.

“Gross,” she laughs, and then pushes out into reality, into the cold air of the gym after the warmth of their bodies and breathing each other’s air. He tells himself to not watch her, to keep his eyes and his hands to himself; a low paranoia that he must be wearing a sign, a giant flashing fucking neon light above his head declaring to the world exactly what they just did.

That he just—

_Man Caught Grinding on Sixteen-Year-Old Daughter at Gym, Comes In Shorts Like A Teenager._

Except one of them really is a teenager. He tries to ignore the plummeting feeling in his stomach, Sof looking back at once over her shoulder, her smile quick, a flash of something meant to reassure, like she’s knows he’s freaking out.

She might actually; he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Fifteen minutes,” she says and then heads towards the women’s change rooms; he turns before he can watch her walk away, heading into the cold damp of the gym’s change rooms; quiet and nearly empty Tom can’t help but think that when he does actually fuck her it’s going to be fucking humiliating…there’s no way he’s going to last.

 

 

                Damp skin sticks to her t-shirt, her hair dripping into cotton as she wiggles and squirms into jean shorts; always the worst part, dressing when you aren’t quite dry; but she knows they have to get going, have to get home and get something to eat before they leave to pick up her mother at the airport.

Sofie rubs her hair little drier, knowing she’ll need to change at home anyway; to put something a little nicer on to greet her mother, a little effort would probably be appreciated, she knows, Lise would love to see her in one of the outfits she bought her for her birthday.

Grabbing up her duffel and heading out into the gym towards the doors, Sofie sees Tom ahead, his hair damp, bag slung over his shoulder and laughing with one of the front desk girls chatting him up like she always does.

Her belly does a little twist at the sight of it and then turns a little sour, can’t help it, can’t stop it…an instantaneous flicker of jealousy that she always has when someone takes his attention, which is  _stupid_ and  _childish,_  but she feels it all the same.

But then his voice swells up in her mind,  _c’mon, Sofie, come for me,_  and she bites back a grin, stepping up close to his side and smiling at the girl who glances down and continues on like Sofie isn’t there at all.

Tom signs the reservation form, their usual booking for weekend mornings; today’s a last minute add because of his unscheduled day off.

“Thanks again, Carlie,” he sets the pen down and passes the binder back.

“Yeah, we really appreciate it,” Sofie leans against his side and his hand lands on Sofie’s shoulder, turning her towards the doors.

“Anytime, Tom,” she smiles and Sofie smiles over her shoulder, calling back,  _we’ll see you Saturday!_

Tom slides his sunglasses onto his face, their paces even and in line, his arm resting heavily over her shoulders leading them to the car and through the parking lot.

“I’m starting to think you don’t like her.”

“Oh?” Sofie question, feigning innocence. “What gave you that idea?”

 He snorts, his arm pulling her a little closer to his side. “At least you didn’t insult her this time.”

“I  _never_ ,” Sofie drops her mouth open, mock-appalled as she climbs in the car, stuffing her duffle beneath her feet. “I simply inquired after her cosmetic surgeon.”

Tom shoves his in the backseat, then climbs in and starts the car as he looks over at her. “Oh right, that’s not rude at _all.”_

“Perfectly acceptable conversation, just like giving the hot cop an eyeful to get his attention is.”

“She’s a nice girl. She just…”

“Wants to bang your brains out?”

He laughs once, a sudden sharp thing at her bluntness, his teeth white and sharp with humour. “Yeah, probably.”

“Would you?”

He looks at her, head turning sharply, even behind his sunglasses Sofie knows he’s frowning. “No, of course not.”

“I meant like if we weren’t… you know.”

 

             “No, she’s too y—” he was going to say  _young,_  but realises that’s a little— a  _lot fucking hypocritical_ given…well, everything going on currently, so he shakes his head instead. “No. She’s not my type.”

“What’s your type?” she frowns, curious.

 _You._ “The horizontally challenged,” he jokes.

Sofie laughs, her smile bright, dimples deep; propping her feet on the dash and tilting to fiddle with the radio. “Though really, next to you everyone is horizontally challenged.”

“Those in severe deficit, then.”

“You know,” she pushes her sunglasses onto her face, grin full and bright. “I feel strangely insulted and yet... lucky, all at the same time.”

 

 

 

 

 

                Sofie does her best to not think about just how difficult this is all going to be once Lise is back in the house as well; that all the freedom they had these last two days, even though it’s all uncharted and unexplored, would soon be even harder to have. That kisses will be stolen, touches guarded, words veiled…that every encounter will be weighted with the stifling press of  _father_  and  _daughter_  and  _family_.

 _We’ll figure it out,_  he said, Sofie hopes he’s right because right now it feels oddly like the last stay before an execution.

She changes into a one of the summer dresses Lise had given her, a simple off the shoulder white thing, kind of loose with a flowy feel that wouldn’t normally be something Sofie would wear… Sofie feels oddly like she should make an effort.

It isn’t quite guilt or remorse, she thinks, something entangled in between; that Sofie is taking something she shouldn’t, that the truth of it all would be catastrophic to their lives; that she’ll do it all anyway because they love each other, and it isn’t kind or gentle or easy.

Because it all feels too inevitable; orbits and touches and gravity and smiles. Tom is  _hers_ and Sofie is  _his_.

It’s…  _everything_.

She gives up on her hair five minutes into blow drying it, braiding it over her shoulder to be done with it. _It’s the effort that counts_ , she thinks, as she angles her face to apply mascara. At least now it will look like they didn’t just roll out of the gym (or off each other; she can’t bite back the smile) to pick Lise up as a last minute thought.

Tom’s coming back in the house as she descends the stairs. Already changed into a nicer v-neck t-shirt and dark jeans he looks… she supposes it shouldn’t be such a surprise how easily she feels that flicker of arousal around him, she just wishes she could control it a bit better instead of a carousel of fantasy images full of skin and sweat and  _fucking._

“I made shakes for the car ride,” he offers, the door closing behind him. His eyes move over her and Sofie feels awkward, wonders what he’s thinking, if he feels the same uncontrollable urges she does.

“Okay,” she says, watching his face, her emotions all jumbled up in her stomach, worried and wanting, afraid that when Lise comes back that  _family_ will make him realise he can’t love her this way, that the weight of keeping a secret with someone else in the house will make the guilt he feels too unbearable.

Worried that he’ll end it all before she even gets enough of him to feel even a little bit sated…wonders if she ever will.

Neither one of them says anything, the house silent, the world outside dull and distant. Tom steps up towards the last stair, still taller than her, but their faces so much closer than they normally are.

His hands land on her hips hidden beneath the loose dress, warmth seeping through; her body seems to shift at its foundations, and when he steps closer she feels like she’s melting into him.

The kiss is slow, his body hard and always so warm and surrounding. Her arms curve over his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The kiss is smooth and sweet, a reassurance, a promise, something meant to comfort her, she thinks. But it doesn’t do much but bring back that barely faded arousal from before; and by the feel of it, the feel of the tightening flex of his fingers, the weight of his cock pressing against her hips instead of her belly like it normally does, Sofie can feel that it’s doing much the same for him.

He breaks the kiss, eyes dark when he steps back. Sofie fights the urge to pounce.

Or quite literally climb him and beg him to touch her again.

He clears his throat, eyes moving over her again. “We need to go, don’t want to be late.”

Sofie nods, chasing his mouth off her lips, ignoring the growing leak of arousal that is still damp and slick despite two changes of her underwear and steps down the last step, heading to the door.

“What—” her voice cracks, a little lost from the kiss. “What time is her flight in again?”

“Six,” he says behind her.

Sofie gets the door halfway open, the world bright, late afternoon sun burning down, when Tom’s hand darts out above her head, pressing hard on the door and slamming it shut.

She doesn’t even get the  _what_  out of her mouth before he’s turning her, backing her into the door with a thud. His hands slip under the hem of her dress, hands rough and starved for skin, gripping onto her ass and lifting her as his mouth hits hers like he hasn’t kissed her in days instead of seconds. Her legs circle his waist and he’s turning and heading up the stairs before Sofie even registers her back leaving the door; too caught up on teeth and tongue and the absolute ravenous way he kisses her to pay any mind at all to the shifting of the world as he climbs the stairs.

Her back hits her bedroom door, his hand fumbling on the handle before they spill inside, Sofie laughing into his mouth, caught up in the sheer desperate need in him, caught up in how wonderful it feels to have all of it focused on her.

He all but crashes them both to the bed, one arm out to keep from crushing her, his hips grinding into hers.

“There was an accident,” he kisses over her jaw, teeth sharp. “We got stuck in traffic.”

“It was terrible,” she gasps, rolling her hips into his, curses the thicker material he has on, wants to feel it like she did at the gym. Wants more—

His mouth moves lower, teeth scraping her collarbone, his hand dragging down the hem of her dress. He lets out little curse at her lack of bra, before his mouth descends over her nipple, teeth scraping, tongue flicking and teasing, winding her spine up into a little shifting arch to chase his mouth.

Tom’s hands knot into the hem of her dress, a rough, uncoordinated gathering of fabric; Sofie can feel it pulling beneath her until he pulls her up into his lap, tearing her dress over her head, tossing it aside before he shoves her back down, mouth catching her nipple, teeth scraping before his tongue swirls over it.

“Oh god,” her back winds, hips rolling in his lap, his hands sliding over her sides like he’s absorbing the feel of her skin. His mouth turns away and he presses the same rough attention to the other nipple, waiting for her back to arc, her mouth to open on a groan.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he demands, rough and torn, pressed out in between kisses down her chest, down the rapid shifting of her stomach from her breathing, over her belly button.

She makes a noise in her throat, a mix of yes and a groan as the sharp white of his teeth scrape her hip, making her jolt.

“I wanted to take my time doing this.”

“Doing what?” she pants, but his hands curl in her underwear, a little scrap of white that he kisses along the edge of and Sofie thinks only,  _oh my god is he—_

“But I don’t want you to have to be quiet,” it’s all ragged and deep, pressed into the sensitive,  _oh my God, he is,_ skin of her hip.

His hands draw down her underwear and Sofie is nearly positive her heart is going to explode right out of her chest, her hands knot into the duvet, white knuckled; it all feels like nearly too much, the anticipation on top of the want on top of the nerves on top of knowing what he’s about to do, on top of it being  _Tom_ ’s mouth kissing over her mound, a groan bitten off in his throat.

“Fuck, Sofie." His hands bruise into her thighs, her underwear barely off her hips, just enough for him to look at her. And he does, Tom leans back, pulls her underwear down, Sofie lifting one leg enough to let him pull it off entirely.

When it hits the floor, discarded and useless, Sofie feels the urge to cover herself, her face, her sex, something, because the way he looks at her is nothing short of terrifying; his eyes move over her, his hands caressing up her thighs, spread wide and open, covering so much of her it’s both terrifying and thrilling all at once. He pushes her legs wider, leaning back up to kiss her, rough and quick.

“Say stop and I will,” he orders, and Sofie doubts she’ll ever here Cop Voice again without getting turned on.

Tongue hot, teeth sharp, he sucks briefly on her neck, down her chest, a wet, hot glide of his mouth over the rapid shifting of her stomach from her breathing.

 _“Sofie,”_ he bites out, his breath hot, words low and warm with a command, mouth hovering just over the top of her sex.

Sofie nods, or she thinks she does, his teeth scrape over the inside of her hip, the thin skin on the side of her cunt and  _oh fuck,_  breaks out of her mouth instead of  _okay._

He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss just above her clit and Elle jolts, something like a squeak breaking out of her; Tom laughs, but the noise cuts off when he presses back down, tongue wide and too hot over her clit, slipping over her arousal, a heavy press that makes Sofie gasp, her hands and body tight, trying to stay still.

His tongue stays flat against her, but it presses harder as one of his hand's curls under her ass to drag her hips up, grinding her against his face.

She can feel the noises break out of her chest, a distant thought to be embarrassed but his tongue curls, circling over her clit, a heavy pass followed by more maddening curls.

She’s sure she sounds too eager, but her head starts to tilt back, hair tangling beneath her head, Tom sucks at her clit and Sofie shudders, body twitching higher, her hips rolling, guided along by his hand into a tight grind against his face.

There’s a vibration that sinks from his mouth into her cunt, a groan as Sofie’s hips twitch on their own, curling against his mouth, seeking more. He shifts higher, both hands wide over her ass, dragging her up more, his eyes on her body, on her face, tongue heavy and hot and licking her up before returning to her clit and sucking, mouthing over it with a hunger that makes her stomach flutter.

Heat builds in her body, fills her up with it like it’s sticky and stuck to her skin, every pass of his tongue, every rougher pull of his mouth, every time he pulls her hips into a slow grind against his mouth, it builds and curls inside of her, sinking lower, filling limbs and then belly, pools between her hips, slicks his mouth, his tongue—

 _Oh godohgod_ , her head turns into the bed, eyes clenching, her body twitching, thighs shaking, kept from closing by the width of his shoulders, her knees digging into his biceps.

It feels like seconds, like no time at all. Sofie can’t stop her own hips from rolling, unsteady and more desperate, dragging out another noise from him, mouth heavy over her clit, the pressure building and growing and burning up inside of her.

Something like a torn open  _Dad_ tears out of her throat, her spine taut, hand flying to her breast like she’s trying to cling on to herself.

He drags her back down to the bed, sinking lower, his mouth slips over her, tongue hot as it presses inside of her, curling up and Sofie twitches, cries out, thighs trying to close. His arm slides over her hip, weighing her down and in place of his mouth, his thumb rubs steady, heavy and quick over her clit.

Words turn into a string of jumbled pleas turn into a bright burst of pleasure so strong that she feels strung up and filled up with flames. His mouth never stops moving, mouthing back up over her clit, the pressure ceaseless and her body unravels beneath him, going taut and tight, her voice breaking into a sob as she comes, a hot rush of liquid, all slick over his mouth and tongue and chin.

He groans, arm weighing her hips down, pulls out more and more, tongue sinking inside of her, watching her twitch and whimper, dragging that slick want over her cunt before he swallows it down. Sofie pants and her body shakes, caught up in the reality unravelling hum of an orgasm, more body than mind, aware only of the too much feeling of his mouth still on her.

She whines, spine easing, her hand coming to tangle in his hair, a boneless, weak shove.

His arm slides off her, hands running over her thighs, heavy and full of something like wonder as he kisses a wet trail. His chin shiny in a way that makes her flush because she knows  _why;_  his teeth scrape and make her jolt, tongue wide and slick over her breast, dragging out another breathless noise from her.

He shifts, rising up more on his knees, forehead warm, breath damp and heavy on her sternum, one of his hands moving down between their bodies and there’s the cold clink of metal, the shifting of fabric and—

Sofie squirms, her hand pushing at his shoulder, muscles still caught up in a tremor. “Can I—”

His shoulders are too broad to see anything, his lips brush over her chest, one hand on her hip to keep her still, hunched over her while he works his cock through his fist.

“Let me—” she tries to reach down, Tom shifts up, too low for her to see anything, catches her lips with his and kisses her deeply, something sweet and strong in his mouth that must be her.

“I want to touch you too,” she squirms, but his chest pins her down, shoulder shifting as his arm moves, his breathing heavy, face falling into her neck, a groan that’s more rolling stone than a voice pressing into her jugular.

There’s a hot splatter over her thigh, makes her stomach clench, a surge of want twisting into the need to see and feel and touch like she’s been dreaming about for so long.

Another clink of metal and when he pushes back to his knees his pants are low and undone, cock tucked away, his eyes are dark, face flushed, chin still shiny from his mouth on her cunt. He peels his shirt off and Sofie watches the flex and shift of his abdominals and chest, the dangerous shift of that ‘v’ of muscles that makes her mind spin images of what it would be like to watch or feel them as he pushes into her.

Tom stretches out beside her on the bed, propped up on his elbow and uses the shirt to wipe her thigh, collecting the cooling mess of his cum on her leg.

Sofie turns her head to look at him, his lips a little swollen and eyes dark when he meets her gaze. She leans forward to catch his mouth, and his hand spreads out over her hip, sliding over her belly, spreading wide, caressing, soaking her up, over ribs and down her side, up over her breast to feel the hard, shiver-inducing sensitive peak of her nipple, the rough of his fingertips making it harden even more, a noise catching in her throat when he does it again.

His hand slides down, over her belly, between her hips and when his fingers curve over sex to cup her Sofie’s hips twitch, her mouth breaking wetly away from his.

 

           They both watch his hand, covering her easily, dragging through the slick mess between her legs, the wet pool of it beneath her; his fingers spreading a shiny trail over her sex whenever he drags them up over her mound before ghosting back down.

 _Fuck_ , but she’s soaked. Tom’s never been so fucking amazed and thrilled and turned on post-orgasm but he wants to work his fingers into her and get her wetter, wonders just how wet he can make her—

He presses a little harder, fingertips brushing over her clit, all hot and swollen from his mouth; Sofie twitches, her hand curling over his neck to pull his mouth back down to hers.

He knows he should stop, knows that they should leave, but he can’t stop his fingers from seeking out that little bundle of nerves again, seeking out that little full body roll she does as pleasure floods through her, seeking out a little more of her wetness to circle her clit smoothly.

Her mouth breaks away from hers, a whimper. “Oh _God,”_ her legs close and then widen as his hand moves; manages to keep his mind enough to not seek any lower, no matter how much he’d like to curl his fingers inside of her he knows that the temptation to keep going would be too much for him to say no to; that his own restraint won’t allow for him to feel her cunt clutching around him and not want to take more and more and more...

He knows they don’t have time, so he presses harder, fingers heavy and right over her clit, focused and intent on her, listening to her breathing, the way her hips shift beneath her skin, her hand scratching into his neck, breath ghosting hot over his cheek.

“D—”

He tears his eyes away to look at hers, a quick kiss on her cheek as her voice breaks louder. “No, Sof, my name, say my name.”

Her eyes flutter and Tom rubs harder, repeats himself, voice rough, eyes moving between her face and the unbelievable sight of her body; shifting, rolling little thing caught up in pleasure.

“ _Tom,_ ” her breath hitches, chest quivering, toes curling and slipping over the bed. “Tom, please—”

He rubs faster, her hips climbing, spine arching as her head tilts back, his name sounds odd from her lips, out of place, but the tone in which he says it, breathless and high and all wanting, he thinks he could care less what she calls him, as long as those sounds stay in the vowels.

Sofie cries out, sobbing and he can’t pretend he didn’t hear the  _dad_  lost somewhere in the middle. With her nails digging into his neck, Tom keeps his fingers tight over her clit, letting her hips roll and body squirm. Watching, heavy eyed and wanting as Sofie grinds herself against them, riding out her own orgasm in twitching, unsteady little waves. Her breath hitches out of her, and he kisses over the hot flush of her cheek, fingers slipping over her, can’t help but slick his hand through it and feel it all soaking out of her.

“Fuck, Sof.” he groans, hips twitching, cock hard again, wanting and ready to stretch her open. “You get so fucking wet.”

“Sorry,” she quivers out, voice breathless, cheeks warming more under his mouth and he can’t help but smile against it, his fingers slipping along her seam, can’t seem to stop himself, dragging out a full body twitch and whimper.

“It’s perfect,” he mouths over her jaw, down her neck. “You’re perfect, Sofie. God, I want to—”

He cuts himself off, the  _fuck you_ sitting on the tip of his tongue. Tom forces himself to grab his shirt lying on the bed and wipe her thighs. His mind filling with images of how she’d look taking him; if she’d pant and plead or bite her lip and groan as he sinks inside of her.

“You can,” she says, her body easing, limbs all lax as he spreads her legs a little more, wiping her off.  “I want you too.”

 _Don’t tempt me,_  he thinks. “We need to go,” he says instead, pressing a final kiss to her jaw, a quick sharp pass of teeth. “We’re already late.”

He pushes up, looking down at her as he sits up and buckles his belt, adjusting the half-hard length of his cock, hoping it will fade by the time they get to the airport. Hoping his mind will stop filling up with the image of her naked and spread out, all flushed and boneless from his mouth and hand…  _it’s a fucking wonderful sight._

“Get dressed,” he orders. “I can’t—” he picks up her dress and tosses it at her face, but when she catches it he’s already leaning down, mouthing over her hip ad sinking lower, voice rough over her skin. “I can’t think while you’re naked.”

“Is that supposed to be incentive for me to get dressed?” her hip twitches, his hand pushing her leg wider, tongue flat and hard licking over her. “Oh—”

“How fast can you come again, Sofie?”

But he drags his teeth over her clit before sucking, and Sofie twitches, no words to answer but for a whining, hip rolling whimper as he takes her apart again.

 

 

 

 

 

                “I look like I’ve been fucked six ways from Sunday,” Sofie laughs, trying to pull her fingers through her hair, to do something with it so it doesn’t look like it’s been rubbing against a bed for the last hour.

Tom’s pulling on a new shirt, but his eyes meet hers in the mirror and the look is one that says something along the lines of  _not yet you don’t._

“Come on, it’s already four-thirty,” he ducks down, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, hand sneaking under her dress to squeeze her ass cheek before pulling away.

She gives up on her hair and knots the whole mess on top of her head, splashing water on her face to take care of the mascara that smudged under her eyes and grabbing the tube before following him down the stairs.

Tom grabs her jean jacket and Sofie slips her feet into flats as he locks the door; the car beeping unlocked as they descend the steps.

In the car, Tom cranks the air conditioning, shifting in his seat. Sofie glances down at his lap as she buckles up, biting back a grin.

She waits until he’s pulled out of the parking spot, heading down the road, the view turning from tree lined streets to the traffic of the city.

“So,” she says casually and shifts in her seat to drop her feet in his lap.

Tom glances down, an eyebrow raised, but one of his hands settles on her ankle, thumb warm on the bone. “So?”

“So, when do I get to blow you?”

His hand spasms, thumb digging in, and he laughs, a  _Jesus_  lost somewhere in a rush of disbelieving, huffed laughter.

“Because I’d really like to, I think,” she smiles, imagining it. “I mean, I’ve never done it before, but I’m a quick learner, you’d let me take my time, right? Until I can get it all in?”

“Sofie, _shut up,_ ” he groans, but the smile on his mouth says something different.

Sofie grins, sliding her sunglasses on, settling back and watching him drive as the radio fills the quiet; her worries dimmed beneath sunshine and the warm weight of his hand over her ankle as he drives.

With the city dulled by tinted windows and the hum of the air conditioning, everything feels like a pocket of the world made just for them.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of what I reached the first time, I know it's not the best end but it does leave them at a happy moment. I might write some one-shots in this universe, like first-time and what not, but it might not be for a little bit. But if there's anything you'd really like to see, drop a comment or drop by on tumblr and drop a request, maybe I'll give it a go!
> 
> https://sweetandsure.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> You'll probably notice some similarities in the story, but essentially it's almost like... the building blocks of Bittersweet thing. Tom started as a cop and shifted into a more complicated character, though their history is pretty similar just their choices are different.
> 
> This story isn't complete and I'm not sure if/when it will be, but it does 'finish' at a good point so there's no real cliff hangers or anything. Bittersweet is still my main focus, but there was a fair amount of interest in seeing this story, so....back up it goes.
> 
> Also, for those who read this before, I did change the name from Ellie to Sophie to make this a bit more distinct from Bittersweet Thing. I'll be updating this pretty quickly, I'm just giving it a quick edit/clean up because it's like a year/two old now, so I feel it really isn't up to where my writing is now, but... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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